


Human by Choice

by lily_winterwood



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Federal Agents, Alternate Universe - Filmmaking, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Federal Bureau of Investigation, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-15 04:16:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 34,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11798184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_winterwood/pseuds/lily_winterwood
Summary: When the body of emerging indie director Emil Nekola washes up near the small Oregon town of Quad Axels, FBI Special Agent Yuuri Katsuki is called in to investigate. But as he uncovers more and more of the town's dark secrets, he realises that there are bigger forces at play than previously suspected.After all, still waters run deep, and when you are haunted by your past, you will see ghosts at every turn.





	1. everybody dies famous in a small town

**Author's Note:**

> “Plus on souffre, plus on est heureux. Je suis heureuse. Je suis la plus heureuse.” — _Ondine_ , Jean Giradoux

“Okay everyone, smile for the camera!”

Click. Flash. The backyard patio of the Cantilever Bar is thick with the smell of smoke and alcohol, suffusing into the mugginess of the warm August evening. At the centre of an entire group of beaming colleagues, Emil Nekola raises his glass.

“You know who really deserves the first martini of the night?” he asks, smiling warmly at the young woman holding up the phone to take the picture, “my esteemed director of photography. Come over here, Alex, you’ve earned this.”

Alex raises an eyebrow at him. “You know I don’t drink,” she says.

“Just this once,” he wheedles. “It’s been a long, uh…how long has it been?”

“Six months,” she replies, setting down her phone and swiping the glass out of his hands. “Six long months of filming all over the Pacific Northwest.”

“Only to come to an end here,” concludes Emil, “in the lovely little town of Quad Axels, Oregon. Not a bad place to end, right?”

“Not bad,” she agrees, and takes a swig of the martini, cringing a little as its bitter taste hits her tongue. In the distance, the faint snowcapped mountains are tinted gold in the light of the setting sun, and the evergreens are a dark, regal frame against the glittering mirror of Lake Paulsen. “It’s so lovely up here. Crisp mountain air, the sound of nature everywhere —”

“The old houses and farms, the population of a little over eight thousand, having only one road on which anything interesting happens,” adds one of the assistants, rolling their eyes. Emil laughs a little at that as a cute server brings out more drinks. He cracks open one of the beers, clinks it against Alex’s martini.

“Well, we can all fly back home soon,” he says, “some of us sooner than others, of course.”

“Right, you’re not leaving until the end of the month.” Alex laughs, taking another swig of her martini.

Emil nods, chugging as much of the beer as he can before setting the half-empty bottle down on the table. “Who’s up for some jalapeño poppers?”

After taking a show of hands, Emil laughs and saunters back into the building, up to the bar where a young woman with olive skin and long dark hair is wiping glasses.

“Sara?” Emil asks, causing her to look up and quirk an eyebrow at him. “Could we, uh, get some poppers?”

“Back table at the patio?” Sara asks. Emil nods, fishing in his pockets for his wallet. Sara rings him up, before sending the order down to the kitchen. But even after that, Emil lingers at the bar, looking around at the décor and the other bar patrons.

“New lanterns?” he asks, gesturing to the aluminium can lights dangling from the ceiling. Sara nods “Nice. Very industrial.”

“Yeah.” Sara’s smile is a little tight. “We had extra cans.”

Emil hums. “And how’s Mickey?”

Sara shrugs. “Good,” she replies. “He’s in the back, if you really want to talk to him.”

Emil sighs, drumming his fingers on the counter for a moment. “I’m good,” he says, before looking over at the swinging doors leading into the kitchen. “But listen, could you tell him I’m sorry?”

“Can’t tell him yourself?” Sara asks, raising an eyebrow as she sets down the glass.

Emil shakes his head. “I don’t know. I just. I want to give him space. I’ve got until the end of the month when my lease is up and then I’m flying out to Dallas to visit my mother before going back to New York.”

“Oh,” says Sara, simply. “You’re leaving soon.”

Emil nods. “I don’t want to go on a bad note, but I don’t want to intrude on Mickey’s space after… you know.” And he gestures between himself and the door, and Sara nods, comprehending.

“Yeah,” she says. “He’s a bit sore about you just up and leaving, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” repeats Emil.

“And then not calling for weeks.”

“Seriously, I’m sorry.”

“And then swanning in here saying you’d like to host your wrap party in here, like there aren’t any other restaurants in town.” Sara shrugs. “I mean, _I_ appreciate the business, Em, but Mickey was a lot more hesitant than I was, you know? It’s why he’s not out here tonight.”

“He doesn’t want to see me, I get it.” Emil smiles, though he doesn’t quite feel it. “Like I said. I’m sorry.”

The server comes out with the basket of jalapeño poppers. “It’s for the back table on the patio,” Sara tells her with a smile, and she nods, walking out the door leading to the patio. Sara then turns to Emil, smiles, and sighs.

“He’ll get over it,” she says, reaching out to pat his forearm. “He’s a big lug, but he’ll come ‘round. And I guess you’re not coming back to Quad Axels once your lease ends?”

Emil shrugs. “Don’t know if I’ve got anything to pull me back,” he replies, grinning.

“Right.” Sara laughs, nodding. She looks around as well, before leaning forward to peck him on the cheek. “You take care of yourself, okay?”

Emil nods. “Thanks, Sara,” he says. “And for what it’s worth, I do miss Mickey. A day hardly passes when I don’t think of him.”

Sara’s knuckles are a little white against the bar counter. “Right,” she says. “Tell your crew next round’s on the house. Congrats on finishing _Inferno_.”

Emil’s grin broadens. “Na zdravy,” he says, and waves at her on his way back out to the patio.

* * *

The crickets are chirping loudly in the warm Oregon night as a couple of the younger crew members begin to disperse from the wrap party. Beatrice and Amara, the costumes and makeup duo, have yet to return from the bathroom, and Alex is barely supporting Wes, the first assistant camera, as they stumble down to Alex’s car.

“Don’t do something I wouldn’t do!” Eric, the sound recordist, chirps at their receding backs, only to be met with a drunken middle finger from Wes and laughter from the rest of the crew.

A chord then fills the air. Someone has brought out a guitar — probably Geoff, the gaffer — and is singing a song in a loud slur of languages unintelligible to Emil’s beer-soaked mind.

He leans against the rail of the porch, grinning as Alex loads Wes into the the backseat. “Take care of him!” he shouts. “He’ll… He’ll need it.”

Alex waves at him. “What time should I come by tomorrow?” she calls back. “For the data dump?”

Emil pauses, brows furrowing as he tries to remember how time works. “Ten?” he asks. “Is that a good time?”

“In the morning?” she shouts.

He nods emphatically. “Yeah.”

“Works for me.” She salutes him. “Night, Em!”

As the car pulls away, Emil rests his head against the wooden rail, drinking in the feeling of the warm summer night against his neck and the sound of the guitar music. The night seems to ebb and flow out of his consciousness, like the small little laps of water against the shore of the lake. An owl calls somewhere in the distance.

He closes his eyes, inhales the scent of smoke and beer and good cheer. Other bar patrons and his crew are dancing; he can hear their thudding footsteps against the deck. When he opens his eyes, he sees the server being roped into the dance, her red hair tossing brightly in the glow of the string-lights on the porch. Emil reaches for his half-empty pint glass and finishes it one sip, noticing that Alex’s martini glass is still largely full.

He leans over for it, watching as Sara comes out to fetch the server, her hands gripping at the server’s wrist despite the other woman trying to pull it free. Emil frowns, but the moment passes in a blink. The server stalks past Sara into the building. Emil downs the rest of the martini.

Time blurs again, and next thing he knows, he’s stumbling down to his car and fumbling with the keys in his pocket. The beat-up old rented sedan unlocks with a beep, but Emil has trouble inserting the key into the ignition for a moment longer before slamming his hands on the wheel in frustration.

The horn beeps loudly. Emil shudders, the fog in his head clearing a little. Someone walks by, knocks against his window. With some effort, Emil cranks it down.

“Hey,” Michele Crispino’s voice resounds. “You’re too drunk to be driving like this. Let me get you home.”

* * *

“ _The great Northwest heat wave this summer is still being felt in the Portland area, with highs this week climbing to a searing 103 degrees! Surrounding areas should expect to see temperatures ten to fifteen degrees above normal lasting through the rest of the week as well. Heat warnings have been issued for numerous counties surrounding Portland, and advisories as we get out into the countryside and rural areas…_ ”

The air conditioning is already on high in Alex’s car as she pulls into the driveway of a small lakeview cabin surrounded by pines. A squirrel shoots out across the overgrown lawn as she steps out, wiping the sweat from her brow before swinging around to the other side of the car to grab the memory cards and external drives.

Everything seems strangely quiet. Even the occasional car in the distance along the nearby interstate sounds jarring. Alex isn’t sure why her gut is curling, but she slowly makes her way up to the front door anyway.

She rings the doorbell, and after a couple minutes of silence she suddenly remembers that Emil usually parks his car in the driveway. A driveway that is currently devoid of cars that aren’t hers.

She digs in her bag, pulls out her mobile, and calls him. After a couple rounds of the dial tone, she hears, “ _You’ve reached Emil. Leave a message with your number and I’ll get back to you_.” A couple more tries all yield the same result, and with a frustrated sigh she jabs at another number.

“ _Alex, I swear to god_ ,” Eric’s voice is slurred still. “ _This better be good, my head feels like it’s being hammered open by Thor’s… hammer thing_.”

“Mjolnir,” replies Alex, rolling her eyes. “And I was just calling to ask you if Emil’s at your place.”

“ _Uh_.” There’s a pause. “ _No_.”

“He was getting into his cups when I left the wrap party last night. Did he have more after I was gone?”

“ _Yeah, he had a couple more beers and the rest of your martini_.”

“Did he try to drive?”

“ _No, I saw him go with someone else — I think it was Michele Crispino? Half of the bartending wonder duo at the Cantilever_?”

“Yeah, I remember Mickey. He took Emil home?”

“ _Hell if I know. Given what happened between them during production_ —”

“Thanks, Eric. I’ll call back if there’s an issue, all right?” asks Alex quickly before hanging up. She then rings the doorbell, knocks on the door, calls Emil again.

“ _You’ve reached Emil. Leave a message with your number and I’ll get back to you_.”

Frowning, Alex pulls out the callsheet and starts calling everyone at the party last night.

“Hey, Beatrice. Is Amara there? Oh, good. I just wanted to ask — have either of you seen Emil?”

“Wes, I’m sorry to bother you but… have you seen Emil?”

“Seriously, Geoff, I don’t have time for your philosophical bullshit on the kino-eye and ephemera. I just wanna know if you’ve seen Emil since last night.”

She makes it down to the PAs before she gives up, rubbing at her temples and casting about for potential hiding places for a key. After a bit of groping around in strange places all over the front steps, Alex finds a spare key under a large rock next to the porch. Unlocking the door, she carefully steps over the threshold and closes the door behind her.

The trees shake, as squirrels run out onto the branches. High up in the branches of one of the firs, an owl turns its head.

The entire cabin is musty and warm, as if someone hasn’t used the air conditioning for a long while. Dust motes float through the air, turning gold when they hit patches of light. Slowly, Alex crosses the living room to set down the external drive and the cards on the kitchen counter.

“Hello?” she asks. No response. She steps down the hallway, checking the bedroom. The bed is unmade, with a couple empty bottles of beer lying on the threadbare comforter covers and an empty pipe sitting on the nightstand. Crossing over to the nightstand, she opens the drawer of the nightstand and digs out a small metal container, slipping it into her purse.

She then checks through the bathrooms, the garage, the spare bedroom that the crew had stored all of their equipment in. Nothing seems to have been moved since last night, not even a sandbag. The Pelican boxes holding the camera and its lenses are still sitting on the bed, next to the slate which is still covered in dry erase marks and gaff tape. _Inferno. Scene 45D take 8_. Even that hasn’t changed.

She calls Emil again. This time it jumps straight to voicemail: “ _You’ve reached Emil. Leave a message with your number and I’ll get back to you_.”

Alex swallows, pocketing her phone and trying to will down the racing of her heart. She steps back out to her car, locking the door behind her as she goes, and makes a beeline straight for the Cantilever.

* * *

“Have you seen Emil?”

Sara shakes her head as she fills another pint glass with beer from the tap. “Not since last night,” she replies, and slides the glass down to the bar patron with a bright smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

The cute director of photography — Alex, was it? — hums at that, rubbing at her temples. Sara watches her carefully from behind the taps, admiring the freckles that splay across her nose and her frumpy cloud of textured brown hair. It’s a shame she lives in Southern California, and will be driving down there once everything’s squared away. The filming of award-winning director Emil Nekola’s second feature in town had been the most exciting thing Quad Axels has seen in years.

Across the room, Mila sends her a scrutinising expression, and Sara feels her face heat up as she quickly pretends to examine the register full of orders instead.

“You could ask Mickey,” she says, deliberately averting her gaze. “He drove Emil home last night.”

“Okay,” says Alex. Her smile is blindingly white, and although her voice is polite there’s an air of impatience in it. “Did he drive Emil’s car?”

Sara nods. “Mickey and I drive here together. I was giving Mila a ride home in our car, so Mickey drove Emil’s.”

“Okay,” repeats Alex. “Right. Where’s your brother?”

“Mickey!” Sara shouts. “Come over here!”

Mickey comes out after a couple minutes, wiping his hands on his apron and flashing his public relations smile at Alex. “Ms Fernandez! Can I help you?”

“Yeah.” Alex nods. “Have you seen Emil?”

Mickey frowns. “Not since eleven last night, why?”

“He seems to have gone missing. Sara said you drove him home?”

Mickey blinks at that. “I did,” he says, after a moment. “You… you said he’s missing?”

“Yeah. Do you know where you parked his car, then? Since it’s not in his driveway and you drove him home and all.”

Mickey doesn’t give an answer, though, as his knees have given out. Sara scrambles to catch her brother, helping him over to a chair and settling him in. Mickey’s fingers are white-knuckled against his knees; his face has taken on a sickly pallor.

“I left his car in the parking lot near our place,” he says, gesturing between Sara and him. Sara swallows, her own stomach churning uncomfortably as she pats her brother’s shoulder. “I was going to give it back to him this morning once he sobered up. I didn’t — this is —” and he puts his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking quietly. Sara puts an arm around him with a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” Alex manages. “I know Emil and you have some history together, but —”

“That’s in the past,” Mickey says, looking up at her. His dark eyes seem a little shinier than usual. “Please find him.”

Sara watches as Alex scrutinises him, her own pulse pounding louder and louder in her ears with each passing minute. Finally, the other woman digs out her mobile.

“I’m calling my producer,” she says quietly, and walks to the back table.

“Can I get you anything?” Sara asks, hoping her expression is something approaching sympathetic. Though at that moment Mila returns from the patio, a circular tray tucked under her arm, and Sara guiltily breaks her gaze from Alex to smile at Mila instead.

She hears a sigh from the back table. “I’m good for now,” says Alex, and dials someone.

* * *

“ _So Emil’s really missing, huh_?” asks the producer, Mr Fujioka.

Alex is starting to regret turning down Sara’s drink offer. She looks over at the bar briefly, only to find the woman busy perusing the register. With a sigh, she returns her attention to the call. “Yeah. No one seems to know where he’s gone. The bartender who drove him home last saw him at eleven. I don’t know what else could have happened. The trail’s cold.”

“ _Alex, honey, you’re a cinematographer, not a detective_ ,” says Mr Fujioka, his voice patient.

“No, but I want to find Emil,” Alex swallows, though it does precious little for the lump in her throat. “What if something bad’s happened to him?”

“ _Alex_.” Mr Fujioka’s voice is grave. “ _Go to the police. File a missing persons report. They will find him a lot faster than you will_.”

Alex rubs at the bridge of her nose, squeezing stray tears out of her eyes. Her heart hasn’t stopped trying to escape her ribcage since Emil failed to pick up his mobile this morning.

“Yeah,” she says after a moment. “I’ll do that. Thanks.”

“ _You’re welcome. I hope they find him soon. I’ll let everyone know production is suspended until they do, all right_?”

“Yeah,” agrees Alex.

“ _You take care of yourself, okay? You must have had quite the morning_.”

“You wouldn’t believe it.” Alex laughs, a little wildly. She notices Sara Crispino staring at her again, and quickly turns back to looking out the window. “Thank you, Mr Fujioka. Bye.”

She hangs up, and then dials 911.

* * *

“I’m heading out to get some snacks, you want any?” asks Deputy Sheriff Leo de la Iglesia.

Over at the reception desk of the Quad Axels Police Department, Guang-Hong gestures to the receiver of his phone and mouths ‘barbecue chips’ at him. Leo nods, salutes him on his way out the door.

Guang-Hong returns to the phone. “Yes, could I get the name again?”

“ _Emil Nekola. E-M-I-L, N-E-K-O-L-A_.” The woman’s voice on the other end falters a little. “ _He’s a twenty-three year old white man, dark blond hair with a small beard? And, uh, blue eyes, I think_.”

“Height and weight?”

“ _Dunno, I think around six feet_.” The woman pauses. “ _Yeah, and I don’t know about weight. But he’s pretty fit. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more_.”

Guang-Hong hums, jotting down the answers onto his notepad. “That’s fine, just tell me what you do know. Um. What was your friend wearing the last time you saw him?”

“ _Uh_.” The woman pauses, considers it. “ _Blue-and-white hoodie, jeans. Dirty white sneakers, probably. Um. Black t-shirt with the Smiths on it. He drives a beat-up rental car_.”

“Make and model, if you know it?” asks Guang-Hong.

There’s a pause from the other end. “ _No_ ,” she says, her voice quiet and sad. “ _But it can’t be more recent than 2006. It still has a cassette player_.”

“What kind of car is it? A sedan? A truck? An SUV?”

“ _A sedan. Four wheels_.” She pauses. “ _I think maybe a Toyota, now that I think of it? But I’m not sure_.”

“Okay.” Guang-Hong nods. “When did you last see your friend?”

“ _At the Cantilever. He was on the back porch — we were having a party. I was going to drive our other friend home, so I asked him when to meet up the next morning, and he said ten AM. But this morning I went to his house and he wasn’t there_.”

Guang-Hong bites his lip, writes ‘ _Cantilever last night_ ’ on the notepad. “Have you asked around about him? Friends and family? Coworkers?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I called everyone who saw him last night. I even talked to the Crispinos. No one has seen him since last night.”

“No one?” repeats Guang-Hong.

“Mickey Crispino drove him home around eleven and that’s the latest it gets.” She sighs. “I’m sorry, this isn’t a lot to go on.”

“It’s fine,” says Guang-Hong, because he’s really not sure what else to say to that. He’s heard about Emil, of course. Everyone has. Emil Nekola won an award at the Sundance Film Festival for his first indie flick, _Anastasis_ , and the local news wouldn’t shut up for a week about him coming to Quad Axels to film _Inferno_.

Guang-Hong had wanted to go to the set of _Inferno_ just for the chance to be an extra, but work always seemed to get in the way. As it is, the news of Emil Nekola’s disappearance has his stomach twisting into knots.

To quell it a little, he clears his throat. “Um. Is there anything else you could tell me, though? Any unique identifiers?” After a moment of silence, he clarifies, “Birthmarks, maybe? Glasses? Any medical conditions?”

“ _Not that I know of, I’m sorry_.” She gives a slight sob. Guang-Hong’s heart beats a little harder in his chest.

“No, no. This isn’t your fault. Don’t feel bad for not having enough information.” He reaches out, before realising that’s a waste of gesture. “It’s good you came to us immediately. We’ll need you to come down to the station to file a complete report with photos and everything, so we can begin searching as soon as possible. If you feel like you don’t have all of the information we need to identify him properly, please reach out to his other friends and family members and ask them to contact us with more information. Is that okay?

Another sob. “ _Okay_ ,” she says after a moment. “ _Thank you_.”

Guang-Hong smiles. “Okay. Please come down as soon as you are able. The station closes at six.”

He hangs up just as Leo steps back into the station with a bag full of snacks and drinks. Leo winks at him — Guang-Hong feels his face heating up — and rummages in the bag.

“Barbecue chips,” he says, tossing the packet at Guang-Hong before heading up to the desk and leaning against it. “What do you have?”

Guang-Hong opens the chips. “Missing persons,” he replies, and reaches for a form.

* * *

_It’s been a little over three weeks, and there’s still no sign of award-winning director Emil Nekola. The Quad Axels Police Department have conducted several searches of the areas surrounding his cabin on Lakeview Drive, as well as on Lake Paulsen itself, all the way to the inlet where it joins the Columbia River._

_Mr Nekola had been in Quad Axels to film his second feature-length film, a supernatural thriller called_ Inferno —

The TV screen turns off. Alex jolts up to see Eric setting down the remote.

“I was watching that,” she says, pouting.

Eric shrugs, and runs a towel through his hair. “Sorry,” he says, unapologetically.

Alex makes a face at him as she clambers out of the bed, crossing the hotel room to grab for the remote to turn the TV back on.

“What’s the point?” asks Eric, as the news footage of the police divers and volunteer searchers reappears on the screen. “They just say the same thing over and over again. ‘Emil’s missing, and we’re totally suspecting people who don’t like his film to be guilty.’ It gets a bit old after a while, doesn’t it?”

“Do _you_ think it was foul play?” asks Alex, taking a seat back on the bed again. Eric crosses over to her, one hand reaching out to cup her cheek.

“Don’t get so wrapped up in this, okay?” he asks, his voice gentle. “It’s enough that you’re still here to help with the investigation.”

“So are you,” Alex points out, looking down at her hands. “I’m just… I can’t leave without knowing if he’s safe. Or even just alive. I —”

She’s cut off by a gentle finger to her lips. Eric kisses her forehead, leans down and wraps her in a hug. He smells like the hotel soap and her travel shampoo; she closes her eyes for a moment and rests her head against the crook of his neck.

_— Local law enforcement are working with Washington state police to search both sides of the Columbia River for any signs of missing director Emil Nekola —_

Eric pulls away just to grab the remote and turn the TV off again. “Let’s get ice cream,” he suggests.

Alex worries her bottom lip with her teeth. “Not feeling it,” she says.

“Maybe you need something else to take the edge off, then,” he replies, already digging through her purse until he recovers the metal container. “I think there’s enough in here for one more pipe?”

“Eric! I’m not getting high just so I can get hungry for ice cream or something,” Alex chides. Eric begins to uncap the tin, and Alex leaps to her feet. “Seriously! Put it back —”

There’s a knock at the door. Eric drops the tin back into the purse. Alex wraps her bathrobe tighter around her, sending Eric a quizzical look on her way to the door. He shrugs.

The door opens to reveal a Japanese woman with brown hair pulled into a bun, dressed in police khakis and sporting a set of mirrored aviators. Just behind her is Deputy de la Iglesia, his hat already in his hands and his expression solemn.

Alex’s stomach sinks like a stone. “Hello?” she offers, her voice weak. She dimly feels Eric coming to stand behind her, his hand hovering inches from her shoulders. “Can I help you, officers?”

“Ms Fernandez?” asks the woman. Alex nods. “I am Sheriff Yuuko Nishigori with the Quad Axels Police Department, and I think you know my deputy Leo here. You were the one who filed the report on Emil Nekola, correct?”

Alex’s chest feels like it’s being screwed up tight. “H-Have you found him?”

Sheriff Nishigori removes her aviators, and the sorrow in her eyes tell Alex everything. The room tilts and spins all around her, and the last thing she feels is Eric catching her before the world goes dark.

* * *

“August 30th, 2015. Local time approximately 9:30 AM. Phichit, I’m heading down Route 30 towards Lake Paulsen now, to the quiet little town of Quad Axels. The temperature outside is a very warm 80 degrees, humidity at about 30%. No clouds in the sky, and pines as far as the eye can see. They’re, uh. Really interesting pines, Phichit. Wish you could see them.”

Special Agent Yuuri Katsuki takes a couple deep breaths as he rounds a hairpin turn at the edge of a gorge. Down below, the majestic valley in which Lake Paulsen and Quad Axels are tucked away spreads out like a patchwork of colours.

“I’ve been called out to Quad Axels to investigate the death of movie director Emil Nekola, whose body was found on the Washington bank of the Columbia River yesterday evening. He’d, uh, apparently been missing for three weeks; his film crew were the ones who reported him missing. Some of them have stayed in town to help with the investigation, which is good, I guess. That they’re helping.” Yuuri runs a hand through his hair, before glancing over at the voice memo app on his phone currently still recording him. The radio is humming something soft and inoffensive, washing idly over his ears as he wends his way down into the valley.

“You know, I didn’t really want this case to begin with, Phichit. Too much press already. You know I don’t like having the added stress of battling news reporters. But Celestino said I should look at it, because the preliminary ME reports read very similarly to the ones for the victims of Belle Isle.” He pauses. “I’m sorry we never caught who was responsible for that.”

He rounds another turn, following the road signs telling him how many miles left until he reaches Quad Axels. The mid-morning breeze sways the tops of the pines; very few other cars pass him by on this lonely mountain road.

“I’m a little worried about the cell reception out here,” he admits after a moment. “But that’s just the tip of the iceberg, too — I’m worried about a lot of things to do with this case. It’s been five years, Phichit. What if Celestino’s wrong and this has nothing to do with Belle Isle? I have to start from scratch in any case, but you know me and my pre-case jitters. What if the local police aren’t helpful? What if I get something wrong? What if someone else gets hurt?”

He reaches for his travel mug and takes a sip. The lukewarm coffee curls against his tongue.

“I wish you were here, Phichit,” he admits. “It’s not the same talking to my phone and pretending it’s you. I stopped for lunch at a diner on the way here — the History Maker Diner, just at the intersection of Route 30 and Mapes. The coffee’s not bad — it does its job — but I thought of you when I tried the peach cobbler. I bet you’d have liked this one, though between the two of us _you_ were the bigger food snob, so maybe I’m just a bad judge of good taste.” He laughs a little at that. “Lunch was ten-fifty, and I also stopped for gas back there, which costed about forty dollars. I’ll dig up the receipt for you later and amend that if necessary.”

A sign approaches him on the road. _Welcome to Quad Axels_ , it reads. _Population: 8,248_. As he drives past it, Yuuri vaguely wonders when that sign had been last updated.

“I’m pulling into Quad Axels now, Phichit,” he says. “I’ll be meeting a Sheriff Yuuko Nishigori at the Fleming Memorial Hospital, where I’ll get to examine the body and determine for myself if it really is Belle Isle again. But even if not, I’ll be staying on to help with the investigation, since the body did cross state lines. I’ll get back to you once I’m at the hospital.”

He stops the recording there, stopping at the intersection and looking around him. This still seems to be the outskirts of the town, with mostly farms and residences spaced relatively far from one another. The mountains and forests stretch out at the edge of the horizon, seemingly hemmed in by rolling fields.

He continues down the road, consulting the directions on his phone as he gets closer and closer to the downtown area. The houses appear to lose proximity to one another the closer he gets to the developed parts of town. Once he starts seeing the glimmering blue patches of Lake Paulsen, the town itself comes into sharper relief.

Quad Axels’s Central Street is lined with churches, shops, and restaurants; its sidewalks are full of promenading townsfolk enjoying their Sunday morning. Strung between two particularly tall lampposts is a giant banner announcing some sort of barbecue event at the end of summer on the Town Hall Green. At the adjoining intersection, Yuuri turns and watches a congregation pour out of a church’s doors onto the front lawn for Sunday brunch.

Finally, he pulls up to the hospital, a white slab of a building jutting out against the indifferent blue sky. He enters, flashing the receptionist his badge and asking for Sheriff Nishigori.

“She’ll be up here soon,” says the receptionist after a moment. Yuuri nods, thumbing through a magazine stand full of tourist flyers for the town while listening to the TV drone on about an infomercial for some magical stain-removing spray. Behind him, the doors slide open again, and a bald man sporting a pair of glasses and a clerical collar strides in.

The receptionist looks up. “Here again, Father Karpisek?” she asks.

“Unfortunately,” replies the man. His face seems lined with grief already; his fingers are fidgeting over the clasps of his leather satchel. “I was requested by Polina Meyers for her husband.”

“They’ll be on floor three,” replies the receptionist. Father Karpisek nods, takes his satchel, and heads for the elevator just as it slides open to let someone out.

“Yuuri!” a voice calls, and Yuuri turns, his eyes widening at the sight of Sheriff Yuuko Nishigori.

“ _Yuuko_?”

“What happened to Yuu-chan?” she asks.

“What happened to Yuuri-kun?” he retorts, and strides forward into her outstretched arms. She pats his shoulder, squeezes him tight, and then holds him at arm’s length, looking him up and down.

“I can’t believe it really is you. You’ve grown so much since my last visit to Hasetsu.”

“I was fifteen the last time you visited Hasetsu,” Yuuri replies. Yuuko laughs and pats his cheek, her expression warm.

“And you’re just as cute as you were back then,” she says, as she steers them in the direction of the elevator. “All grown up and in the FBI, huh? Just like you said you’d do.”

“What about you, though?” asks Yuuri as they step inside. Yuuko hums, pressing a button for the basement floor. “Sheriff’s not a bad post, but why out here? I thought you wanted to join the FBI, too.”

Yuuko laughs, and flashes him her left hand. Yuuri notices the sparkle on her fourth finger and makes a little ‘ah’ of realisation.

“Congratulations,” he offers. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for the wedding, but —”

“We eloped, so you wouldn’t have been there anyway,” she replies, grinning. “Our girls have been obsessively following the Nekola case since the news broke. They’re already such crime nerds; they’d love to talk to a real FBI agent. You should visit! Or even stay with us for a while; I could call Takeshi and have him set up the guest bedroom.”

“Oh, well, I’ve already booked a room at the Boitano Falls Lodge,” says Yuuri, as the elevator doors slide open to reveal a dimly-lit hallway with a sign at the end labelled ‘MORGUE’ and a red arrow pointing to the right.

“Ah.” Yuuko nods. They head down the hallway, turning right to see the door at the end of another hall. “Either way, come have dinner with us tonight, okay? I’ll call Takeshi about it.”

“Okay,” agrees Yuuri, smiling. They stop in front of the door to the morgue. “Now, show me the body, please.”

Yuuko nods, and pulls the door open. The cold air of the morgue hits them like a punch of ice and chemicals. Yuuri tones down his revulsion and steps in, nodding at the other police officer who is standing by the slab, as well as the morgue attendant who has a bright red streak in his hair and a wide, excited grin on his face that seems incongruous with the solemn surroundings.

Yuuko smiles at them both, and gestures to Yuuri. “Yuuri, meet my deputy, Leo de la Iglesia, and medical examiner Dr Kenjirou Minami.  Ken, Leo, this is Special Agent Yuuri Katsuki.”

Yuuri waves, feeling his cheeks heat up as Dr Minami bounds over to shake his hand.

“It’s an honour to meet you, Special Agent Katsuki,” he gushes, his eyes almost watery with happiness. “I’ve been a fan of the Bureau's work for a very long time.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri, looking over at Yuuko, who seems to be trying to hide a grin behind her hand. “That’s — that’s good?”

“Ken, maybe that’s enough hand shaking,” Yuuko suggests. Dr Minami flushes, leaping away from Yuuri’s hand. He then scampers back to the slab, putting on a pair of gloves. Yuuri approaches, noticing the sheet-covered body already set out.

Dr Minami pulls back the sheet, and Yuuri has to temper his initial shudder of revulsion at the sight beneath.

“He’d been in the water for a while, I’d say about two weeks at least,” says Dr Minami, handing Yuuri a set of gloves. “We’re still running some tests, of course, trying to determine whether he died in the lake or the river, as well as pinpointing a more exact time of death.”

“You don’t have an exact time of death right now?” asks Yuuri, arching an eyebrow.

“The heat wave earlier in the month may have sped up decomposition for him,” replies Dr Minami. “My best estimate for now is August 8th.”

“So the day he disappeared,” says Yuuri. Dr Minami nods. Yuuri traces the shape of one of the bruises on the man’s face, frowning slightly.

“Some of these wounds are defensive wounds,” he remarks. “He was in a fight.”

“Before he died, yeah,” says Dr Minami. “Unfortunately time in the water would have removed any traces of DNA.”

“Any signs of sexual assault?”

“No.”

“And the cause of death?”

“Drowning and strangulation. There was a lot of water in his lungs, and,” here Dr Minami tilts the head back, exposing a set of bruises around the victim’s neck, ”he’s got these bruises around his neck.”

Yuuri hums. “Yes,” he says. “That’s what drew me to the case, actually. The pattern of bruising around his neck are pretty distinctive. But also…” he points to the lips on the body. “Do you see these markings around his lips?”

“Bruises, right?” asks Dr Minami. “I figured that was from the fight or something; it seemed to have been inflicted antemortem.”

“Possibly.” Yuuri’s heart is racing as he examines the bruises around the corpse’s lips. Suddenly he remembers a set of lips from five years ago, laid out on an indifferent slab in some morgue in Detroit. Remembers the strange pallor of the skin, the darkness of the bruises around the neck.

The feeling of Yuuko’s hand on his back seems muted, like someone’s voice from underwater, like a light show at the end of the tunnel. His limbs are lead; his chest is a vice. The world sinks, but the next thing Yuuri knows is the flash of red in Dr Minami’s hair as the younger man kneels down next to where he’s sitting on the linoleum, leaning heavily against the cabinets.

“Are you alright?” Dr Minami asks. “I know dead bodies can be upsetting, even for people who have seen more than their fair share of them. Do you need —”

Yuuri cuts him off by shaking his head, already trying to clamber to his feet. Dr Minami helps him up, and Yuuri flashes him a brief smile as he dusts off his suit. Yuuko opens her mouth, as if to ask him if he’s really okay, but Yuuri shakes his head. He then fishes his mobile out from his trouser pocket, pulling out the voice memo app before saying:

“Phichit, I’m currently at the morgue of the Fleming Memorial Hospital, examining the body of Emil Nekola.”

He pauses, looks back at Yuuko, Dr Minami, and Deputy de la Iglesia, before adding, “Based on my own observations, as well as the preliminary ME reports, I’m at least 98% sure that Mr Nekola is the newest victim of the serial killer responsible for the Belle Isle drownings.”

* * *

“ _So, who do you think killed him, Agent Marlow?_ ”

“ _You’re not going to like what I think, Agent Seymour_.” On the screen, Agent Faris Marlow throws his beautiful and definitely against-regulations long silver hair behind one shoulder as he bends down to examine the dead body. “ _It’s not ‘who’ killed him. It’s ‘what’_.”

“I’m guessing being an actual FBI agent means less quippy one-liners,” says Alex, tearing her gaze away from the on-screen FBI agent to the one currently sitting across the coffee table from her at the Quad Axels Police Department. The real live one turns in his swivel chair, flushes a little at the sight of Agent Faris Marlow widening his gorgeous baby blue eyes at his partner Agent Dina Seymour, and turns the television off.

“Sorry, I’d like to keep this as distraction-free as possible,” he says.

Alex laughs. “Were you distracted by Seymour or Marlow?” she asks.

“That’s classified,” the FBI agent blurts out. Alex snorts.

“Wow, I guess maybe quippy one-liners is a requirement for joining the Bureau after all,” she jokes, but then sobers up at the solemn expression on his face. “Sorry,” she adds.

“No, it’s… it’s fine.” The FBI agent fiddles with his pen for a moment, his cheeks still flushed an adorable pink. “Let’s just. Let’s start over. I’m Special Agent Yuuri Katsuki, and I’m now in charge of the investigation into the murder of Emil Nekola.”

“It’s definitely murder, then?” Alex asks.

“What? Yes.” Agent Katsuki nods. “The evidence points in that way, yes. And I take it you’re the friend who first reported him missing?”

Alex nods. “Yeah. I went to his house and he wasn’t there. I called or visited everyone we knew in town, and none of them had any idea where he was. So then I called the producer for the film, and he told me to go to the police.”

“At what time did you go to his house?” asks Agent Katsuki.

“10 AM, August 8th,” replies Alex. “We’d had a wrap party at the Cantilever the night before, and I left early to take care of one of the other crew members. Emil was still drinking when I last saw him.”

“How early?” asks Agent Katsuki.

“Around 9:30,” says Alex. “A lot of the kids were leaving around that time, too.”

“Kids?” echoes Agent Katsuki.

“Seniors from Quad Axels High,” replies Alex. “And a couple college kids from Portland, too. They were all production assistants.”

“I see.” Agent Katsuki jots down a couple notes. “Sorry if I’m just asking you questions you’ve already told the police. I need to hear it from you myself, you know?”

“Yeah,” says Alex, nodding as she fiddles with her fingers. The news that Emil is dead is still festering in her chest, numbing her to everything. Agent Katsuki adjusts his glasses, folds his hands together, and looks at her intently.

“So, where were you between the hours of 10:30 PM and midnight on August 7th?”

* * *

“I was at the Cantilever until it closed at eleven,” says Eric Chen, his expression pinched in concentration. “And then I went home.”

“You were drunk, though,” says Yuuri, scrutinising him over the rim of his glasses. “Did someone drive you home?”

“Yeah.” Eric drums his fingers on the table, plays with the clasp of his snapback. The police statements say that he’s twenty-five, but he has all the nervous energy of someone ten years younger. “Beatrice. She and her girlfriend Amara did the costumes and makeup for the film; we all live in Portland so we carpooled over together.”

“It takes almost two hours to drive from here to Portland,” remarks Yuuri. “This wasn’t ever an issue for you guys?”

“We all chip in for gas,” replies Eric, shrugging. “You do what you gotta do. And Emil’s a good guy; he paid us industry standard for what we do and filming was generally drama-free, so yeah. Working for him wasn’t that bad.”

* * *

“Eric told you filming was drama-free?” demands Beatrice Murphy, a smartly-dressed and freckled redhead currently sporting an incredulous expression on her face. “He’s not exactly the most observant guy, then. Or he’s lying to you.”

“Lying,” repeats Yuuri, raising an eyebrow. Eric hadn’t given off the vibe that he was hiding something. But then again, it’s often hard to tell with people. “Tell me more.”

Beatrice smooths down her auburn ringlets, adjusts the numerous rings on her fingers. “Well, then,” she says, her long red nails clacking against the laminate wood tabletop. “He didn’t tell you about what happened between Emil and Mickey.”

“Mickey?” echoes Yuuri. “Do you mean Michele Crispino?”

* * *

“Yeah, everyone calls him Mickey.” Amara Karim rests her chin on her hands. Yuuri can’t help but notice how she’d coordinated her eyeshadow with her hijab. “He’s one of the bartenders at the Cantilever, along with his twin sister, Sara. Emil knew them from college, I think.”

“And you’re telling me Emil was seeing Mickey during production?” asks Yuuri, furrowing his brows.

“Yeah,” says Amara. “Mickey would be on set all the time. I mean, he was Crafty — that’s the person who provides the food — so he had an excuse, but Alex once caught them making out in the bathroom on set, and pretty soon after that everyone else found out, too.”

“Do you know if the relationship was still ongoing at the time of Emil’s disappearance?”

* * *

“It wasn’t,” replies Sara Crispino.

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “Did the relationship end well?” he asks.

“No,” she repeats. “The two of them had a fight over something and Emil stormed off. I tried to go after him, but he was already gone. Mickey was in a bad mood for the rest of the night.”

“What are his ‘bad moods’ like?” wonders Yuuri. “Is he depressive? Violent? Does he isolate himself, or does he take it out on others?”

“Are you suggesting —” begins Sara, but Yuuri quickly laughs it off, waving his hands frantically.

“No, no! I just need the full picture here, Ms Crispino. Please. Just answer the question.”

* * *

“Violent. Definitely violent.”

“You seem very convinced of this,” says Yuuri, raising an eyebrow as he jots down his observations. Across the table, Alexis Fernandez pulls idly at her hair. “Was he ever violent towards you?”

“No, but I’ve seen him beat up bar patrons who look at her funny.”

“Is he ever physically violent against his sister?” asks Yuuri.

Alex shrugs. “If he is, I’ve never seen it.”

Yuuri nods. “I see,” he says. He then thumbs through her reports to the police, looking for a change of topic. He notices another piece of paper in the file, and pulls it out.

“There was an incident report filed in July in response to some anonymous threats against Mr Nekola’s life?” he asks, setting the report on the table.

Alex nods. “Yeah. Someone sent him a letter saying he was going to burn in hell and that they were going to help him get there. We reported it as soon as he got it and had a police detail outside of our filming locations for the rest of the month, at least until the protesters lost momentum and gave up.”

“Protesters?” echoes Yuuri. “Tell me more.”

* * *

“They were people from the local churches who didn’t like the fact that we were making a movie about a young girl who’s trying to escape a religious cult,” answers Eric. “They said it was just another example of the bad rap Christians were getting in this country now that everyone’s embracing multiculturalism. War on Christmas, yada yada.”

“And you think the person who threatened Mr Nekola was one of those people,” says Yuuri, not even looking up from his notebook as he says that.

“We don’t have any reason _not_ to believe that,” Eric points out. “I think the police should have the original letter on hand, if you want to see it. We gave it to them.”

Yuuri nods. “I know. I’ve read it. The news even reported on it alongside his disappearance, I think.”

Eric scoffs. “They keep putting the focus of the story on the fact that Em’s film was controversial. It’s like they think he was asking for it by daring to make something dark.”

“Dark?” echoes Yuuri. “How so?”

“It’s a horror film,” replies Eric. “There’s a lot of gore, murder, implied child abuse. It’s not a kid-friendly film. Emil refused to hire anyone under age eighteen because some of the scenes get so graphic.”

Yuuri nods, turning to a new page in his notebook. “Did the threat or any of the protests have an effect on Mr Nekola?”

“As far as I know?” asks Eric. “No. It didn’t. He was a cheerful guy all throughout the entire ordeal.”

* * *

“That was what was so wonderful about him,” Beatrice agrees. “Even during the worst of the protests he was always so upbeat. Always had a smile on his face. Kept on telling everyone that they didn’t have to work on a film they were morally opposed to. I mean, that doesn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t hiding depression or something, but —”

* * *

“He wasn’t depressed, as far as I know,” says Amara. “He wasn’t paranoid, either. The threats just sorta slid off him. It wasn’t even his idea to get police protection; that was Mr Fujioka wanting to make sure we stay safe.”

“Mr Fujioka is the producer, right?” asks Yuuri.

Amara nods.

“What was he like?”

“He didn’t show up set a lot, if that’s what you’re wondering,” she replies. “He was always calling Emil, sometimes Alex. The rest of us didn’t really know him.”

“No disagreements between Emil and Mr Fujioka?”

“Not that I know of.”

* * *

“What about the argument between Emil and your brother?”

Sara Crispino rubs at her temples. “It’s kinda fuzzy, but I think they were arguing about me? Mickey’s always worried that people will use him to get to me. But, like. Emil wasn’t looking for that sort of thing, you know.”

“Do a lot of people actually use your brother to get to you?” wonders Yuuri.

Sara laughs. “It’s all in his imagination. Mickey loves seeing threats where there’s nothing.”

* * *

“That was one time,” says Michele Crispino, glowering at Yuuri from across the table. Yuuri feels a chill run down his spine that he quickly covers up with a shaky smile and a more studious bent to his shoulders, as if he’s diligently copying down all of Michele’s answers. “I asked Emil _one_ time if he was using me to get to my baby sister. And I wouldn’t get involved with anyone who’d answer yes to that.”

“Your sister —” Yuuri begins, but he is cut off by Michele slamming his hand on the table and leaning in close.

“My sister has _nothing_ to do with this,” he snarls in Yuuri’s face. Yuuri flinches as a little bit of spit lands on his cheek. “I don’t know which sonuvabitch would kill Emil, but if I find them, I’ll make them regret ever doing that to him.”

“Duly noted,” remarks Yuuri, wiping furiously at his cheek before hiding his face behind his notebook. “Um. Was that the argument that made Emil leave?”

“No,” says Michele, visibly deflating. His eyes are now terribly, terribly sad, weighed down with regret. “He just left me the morning after we, you know.” He bites his lip, looking significantly shyer and smaller than he’d been a minute ago. “We hadn’t, before that night. And I guess he didn’t like it. Because he left. And never called again.”

“That’s rough,” remarks Yuuri. Michele glowers at him. “Sorry. For that. And for my comment.” He clears his throat. “Um. If I have any other questions I’d like to ask you, this would be the number to call, right?”

* * *

Sara examines the piece of paper that Agent Katsuki slides across the table. “That’s it,” she says, smiling as she rises to her feet. “Anything else?”

“No, you’re free to go,” replies Agent Katsuki. “Thank you for coming by.”

“My pleasure,” she says. Agent Katsuki rises, too, shaking her hand before going to get the door.

“Do you need me to walk you out?” he asks.

Sara’s grin only widens as she strides up to him. “No,” she says, her finger tracing the line of his black necktie. He flushes at it, and she laughs, brushing past him on her way out. “But I do appreciate a nice handsome man in a suit offering me such a thing.”

“Part of the job, ma’am,” he replies.

“Really? They teach you that at FBI school?”

Agent Katsuki laughs. “Have a good day, Ms Crispino,” he says, and the tone in his voice clearly leaves no room for argument. Sara giggles a bit, and heads out of the station to catch the bus back to the Cantilever.

The bus drops her off a block away, so she walks back to the bar in the late afternoon sunshine. It’s cooler now than it was before, sunlight dying all the buildings in shades of gold and bronze. The Cantilever is at the end of the block; several cars are pulled up in the parking lot when she crosses it; Mila Babicheva is leaning against hers and Mickey’s, smoking a cigarette.

“How was the police?” asks Mila. Sara says nothing, only crosses over to the car to take Mila’s cigarette. She takes a drag, exhaling smoke into the blue. The jittery static in her head seems to ease off a little.

“They just asked me questions about Emil and Mickey,” she says after a moment. Mila nods, taking the cigarette back. She also takes a drag, before dropping it onto the asphalt and grinding it out beneath her heel.

“Do you think they’re going to bring me in, too?” she asks.

Sara raises an eyebrow. “Why, have you been naughty?” she asks, smirking a little. Mila laughs, reaching out and snaking a hand around Sara’s waist, pulling her closer.

“Not more than usual,” she replies, her smile bright and sweet, and Sara quickly swoops in to peck it.

Mila exhales against her lips, pulling back just a little with a surprised quirk of the eyebrow. “We’re outside,” she points out. “Anyone can see.”

“Let them see,” replies Sara, cupping the sides of Mila’s cheeks with her hands before swooping in to kiss her again.

The younger woman melts beneath her, tilting her head up to give Sara better access. Mila’s mouth tastes like vanilla chapstick and cigarette smoke, a strange but intoxicating combination that makes Sara’s head spin. Slowly, she presses Mila against the side of the car, knowing full well that anyone who happens to look out at the parking lot would be able to see them. And while most of the time she’s desperately trying to keep this relationship hidden from Mickey, in this moment, she doesn’t care.

After all, if she’s lucky enough, she won’t have to care about it anymore.

Almost as if she’s sensing Sara’s distraction, Mila breaks the kiss, her brows furrowing. “I can hear your thoughts from here, Sara,” she chides. “It’s a bit of a mood-killer.”

“Sorry,” mumbles Sara. Mila hums, peppering kisses all over her face. Sara leans her forehead against Mila’s for a moment, looking down at the space between them, at the heaving of Mila’s chest as she tries to catch her breath.

“What’s on your mind?” asks Mila quietly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“Everything,” sighs Sara, and presses one more kiss to Mila’s lips — this one is slower, sweeter, something to tide them over until their next break. Mila hums into her mouth, caught between thoughtful and pleased as her hands move into the back pocket of Sara’s jeans.

“We’ll talk tonight,” she suggests. Sara nods, and the two of them break apart. Mila adjusts her uniform, runs a hand through her russet curls. Sara wants to wrap around her fingers, wants to press kisses to each sun-kissed freckle dotting her nose and cheeks.

But she steps back instead. “We can’t be seen returning together,” she says. Mila looks downcast, but she nods.

“I’ll go first,” she says, and brushes past Sara on the way back into the bar. Sara briefly thinks, then, of how she’d smiled at Agent Katsuki, of how she’d felt the warmth of his hand in hers, and guilt shivers its way down her spine to settle and fester in her gut.

She heads in a couple minutes after Mila, only to be confronted with an empty bar. “Where’s Mickey?” she asks.

Another server shakes his head. “He just took off,” he says.

Sara’s brows furrow. “Where?”

* * *

“I’m sorry, Agent Katsuki,” says Father Karpisek as he leans heavily against the wooden pew. “I couldn’t begin to tell you who organised such a hateful protest.”

Yuuri sends him an incredulous look. Father Karpisek’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“The protesters never conducted their meetings inside of the church,” he says. “I don’t know any of their names.”

“Your parishioners must trust you, though,” Yuuri points out. “You are a pillar in their community. Someone must have mentioned _something_.” He pauses. “Or maybe they’re doing it because of something you said during a sermon?”

Father Karpisek’s expression darkens. “I have never encouraged or condoned violence against other people,” he bites out. “And I don’t appreciate you insinuating as much, Agent Katsuki.”

Yuuri sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. “I know you don’t necessarily agree with the artistic visions of the deceased, but if one of your parishioners is responsible for his death, would you want that on your conscience?” He searches the priest’s impassive expression, hoping against hope that what he’s saying won’t be taken too badly. Phichit had always been better at this part than him, and for a moment Yuuri misses him again.

He swallows, clenches his hands into fists. Phichit isn’t here. He’s on his own.

“I’m not asking you to break any seals or oaths. I just want to know if you’ve seen anyone in your congregation behaving oddly, or if you’ve seen them protesting Mr Nekola’s film.” He sighs, adjusting his glasses and looking up at Father Karpisek’s stony expression. “I just want to ask them some questions — I’m not accusing them of anything — so I can try and figure out what happened prior to Mr Nekola’s disappearance.”

“The last of the protests happened weeks before the film finished shooting,” says Father Karpisek.

Yuuri, who had began to rise from his seat in the pew behind the priest, slowly sits back down. “What?” he asks.

“I gave a sermon in May,” says Father Karpisek, “about the upcoming film shooting and how it was sad that so much of the media sees the need to demonise Christianity and organised religion, that a community that should be uplifting and full of love has been perverted into a cesspool of hate and bigotry. After that, I heard that people were protesting the film.”

Yuuri nods, opening up his notebook. “What about the death threat? Do you know anything about that?”

Father Karpisek raises an eyebrow. “A death threat? No. If one of my congregation did that, it was without my knowledge.” The words have barely left his lips when there’s a ping from his trousers, and he takes out his mobile. “I’m sorry, Agent Katsuki, but I have an appointment with someone. If you have further questions, you know where to find me.”

Yuuri nods, watching the priest rise to his feet and walk away down the aisle. He himself lingers, looking up at the stained glass windows behind the altar. The light of the slowly setting sun casts patterns of many different colours against the stone floor, glints off the golden accents on the statues and the crucifix behind the altar.

“It’s good to see you,” Father Karpisek’s voice echoes from behind. Yuuri closes his eyes, bows his head. “You’ve been absent for weeks. I noticed.”

“I’m here now,” replies the voice of Michele Crispino. “And I need to make a confession.”

* * *

_The FBI has arrived in Quad Axels for the investigation into the death of Emil Nekola, director of the critically-acclaimed and award-winning sci-fi film_ Anastasis _. Nekola, a temporary resident in Quad Axels, was found washed up yesterday on the Washington bank of the Columbia River. The police and the FBI have determined that characteristics surrounding Nekola’s death are highly similar to those of the Belle Isle drownings in Detroit five years ago._

Christophe Giacometti leans against the counter, watching the press conference. Sheriff Nishigori is looking particularly serious, and the Asian man wearing the FBI badge next to her nervously adjusts his glasses as he approaches the podium. He’s alarmingly cute, in a flustered way; his slicked-back hair is a little rumpled and his dark eyes are piercing.

“ _We are doing everything we can to find the person who perpetrated this and bring them to justice_ ,” says the FBI agent once he reaches the podium. The harsh lighting of the journalists’ flashbulbs glints off his glasses. “ _In the meantime, I would ask that everyone in Paulsen County exercise extreme caution, especially those who live closest to the lake or the Columbia River. Try to avoid going out alone at night, and lock your windows and doors. And if you have any information regarding the death of Emil Nekola, please do not hesitate to call the tipline below_ —”

Christophe changes the channel. “Think he’ll stop by here?” he wonders.

“Change it back, Chris,” the figure in the armchair replies. “I want to see him again.”

Christophe rolls his eyes, but complies.

* * *

After the press conference, Yuuko drives Yuuri to her place. “Takeshi and the girls are excited to meet you,” she says, smiling at him in the light of the streetlamps zooming by. Yuuri nods, focusing his gaze on the road ahead.

“How old are your daughters?” he asks.

“Eleven,” she replies. Outside the window, the moon is a pale medallion hovering just above the lights. A faint dusting of stars shine in the sky as they pull out of the downtown area towards the quieter residential parts of town.

“Are they doing well?” wonders Yuuri.

“Wonderfully,” replies Yuuko. “I think I told you they all want to work for the FBI when they grow up?”

Yuuri laughs. “You might have mentioned it,” he says, as Yuuko turns into the driveway of an old single-storey house. The warm glow of the lights inside spill out of each window, and when Yuuko opens the garage door and parks the car, three girls in outfits of pink, purple, and blue come running out to greet them.

“Wow, Mr FBI Agent!” one of them exclaims. “You’re shorter than we expected.”

Yuuri only blushes at that, not sure what to say. Yuuko ruffles her girls’ hair before opening the door leading back into the house.

“Tadaima!” she calls, and moments later a broad, good-natured looking Japanese man appears, oven mitts still on.

“I just took dinner out of the oven,” he says. “The girls have been demanding we make lasagna for the past couple of days.”

“Hope you like Italian, then,” Yuuko tells Yuuri, and then turns back to her husband. “Takeshi, this is Yuuri, my childhood friend from Hawaii. He works with the FBI and is investigating our current homicide case.”

“Sounds exciting,” replies Takeshi, as Yuuko strides over to the hall closet to stash her pistol in the safe. “What part of the FBI?”

“Behavioural Analysis,” replies Yuuri, bowing a little. “I usually handle serial cases, and this is no exception.”

“Let’s not talk work,” suggests Yuuko. Yuuri sees the crestfallen expressions on her daughters’ faces, and hides a smile behind his hand.

“Are you, like, a special agent?” asks the one in pink. Yuuri nods, earning him several exclamations of ‘wow!’ and ‘cool!’ from the others. Yuuko rolls her eyes good-naturedly, and begins to herd them towards the dining room.

“Does the FBI have a Paranormal Research Unit like they do in _Human by Choice_?” asks the one in purple as they all take their seats around the table. Sure enough, a casserole dish full of lasagna is at the centre of the table, accompanied by a light salad and some creatively-shaped cookies that are clearly the handiwork of the girls. Takeshi pulls out a chair for Yuuri and he sits, nodding appreciatively.

“Wine?” Yuuko asks. “To welcome you to Quad Axels properly.”

“I don’t drink much,” says Yuuri, shaking his head. Yuuko pours herself and Takeshi glasses of red, and they take their seat next to their girls.

Halfway through serving Yuuri some salad with his lasagna, the girl in purple speaks up again. “You didn’t answer my question, Mr FBI Agent.”

“His name’s Yuuri, Axel,” says Takeshi.

“We don’t have a Paranormal Research Unit, no,” says Yuuri.

“Really?” asks the one in blue. “Or is that something the government told you to say?”

“Well, then wouldn’t that be classified information?” asks Yuuri.

“Can we see your badge?” asks the one in pink.

“Loop!” groans Yuuko.

Yuuri laughs. “No, no, I don’t mind. Just don’t get it dirty,” he says, and takes out his badge, showing it to the girls.

“Your picture is funny,” says Axel.

Yuuri chuckles. “Yeah, I’ve been told I look like a serial killer in my badge picture.”

“That’s because you look super intense,” says Lutz, and then her eyes light up again. “Oh! If you can’t tell us if there is a PRU, could you at least tell us if you work with Agents Seymour and Marlow?”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow at Yuuko, who is clearly hiding her laughter by gulping down her wine. “Um, I haven’t been assigned to anything with them,” he says.

“Well, duh, because they’re _fictional_ ,” says Axel. “And from the nineties. I bet the actors don’t even look that good anymore.”

“Oh, I don’t know, kids,” says Takeshi, his eyes sparkling as he cuts into his lasagna. “Your mother’s always talking about how Agent Marlow’s actor ages like a fine wine.”

“I’m just saying, the guy should be what, in his fifties or sixties now? And he still looks like he’s late twenties,” replies Yuuko. Yuuri chuckles, remembering how they had spent many a sweltering summer in Hasetsu watching reruns of _Human by Choice_ on Mrs Toyomura’s basement TV. They had both fallen in love with the dashing silver-haired Agent Faris Marlow then, and clearly that much hasn’t changed since.

He takes a bite of the lasagna. It is a damn fine lasagna.

* * *

“Do you have a partner, Mr FBI Agent?” asks Axel on the drive back to the police station. Yuuri startles a little in his seat at that, turning slightly to glimpse her inquisitve expression.

“Sorry, what?” he asks.

“A partner. Like Seymour and Marlow. Or the entire team on _Criminal Profiles_.” Yuuri can sense her leaning forward in interest, and he sighs.

“I had a partner,” he says.

“Really?” asks Lutz. “What were they like?”

“Very fun,” says Yuuri, smiling. “He was the life of the party.”

“What happened to him?” asks Loop.

“ _Girls_ ,” warns Yuuko. Yuuri laughs.

“He left,” he says, shrugging. The car hurtles along the road, the streetlights sparkling against the pavement in gold. The moon peeks out between odd houses and trees, silver and fragile in the sky.

Yuuri leans his head against the window for the rest of the drive, listening to the soft crooning from Yuuko’s radio interspersed with the sounds of the police radios as well. The girls beg their mother repeatedly to put on the siren, just for fun. Yuuri tunes it all out after a moment, drowning himself in the beat of his own heart.

_Drowning…_

A body, too cold to the touch. Bruises around the lips, around the neck. The heated sting of tears —

“Yuuri? We’re here.” Yuuri startles out of his thoughts to find he’s still in Yuuko’s car, which is now parked in front of the police station. Despite the late hour, the lights are still on in the building. He thanks Yuuko, his voice half-slurred from his thoughts, and steps out across the parking lot towards his car, pulling up on his phone the directions towards the Boitano Falls Lodge.

The drive to the lodge is quiet, too quiet. Yuuri pulls up his voice memos, listening to the playback over and over again. “ _Phichit, I have just finished conducting interviews with some of the crew members who worked with Mr Nekola prior to his death_.”

“ _Phichit, I have finished interviewing the Crispinos_.”

“ _Phichit, I have interviewed Father Karpisek. Incidentally, after my interview with him, Michele Crispino arrived at the church and told the priest he wanted to confess something. Of course, I couldn’t record what they said. I didn’t even hear any of it. But I wonder what he wanted to say now that he couldn’t tell the good father weeks ago, when he was last there_.”

“ _Phichit, I have found out what types of pines these are. They’re_ —”

“One room with breakfast,” says the front desk clerk, handing him his key. “Room 206.” Yuuri nods, lugs his suitcase into the elevator with him. Room 206 has a view of the falls cascading into the lake. The room seems almost stifled with nothing but the noise of falling, rushing water.

Yuuri sinks back onto the bed, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes.

He’s standing on the banks of the Detroit River. Small waves chase after the pebbles on the shore. In the distance, the fog-covered shape of Belle Isle looms like the answer to a puzzle he doesn’t know how to decipher.

A figure rises out of the water, long silver hair flowing around his body. He seems fluid, too fluid — as if the very composition of his skin is water given form to flow in. Yuuri feels himself relaxing at the sight, not sure why this man seems to be nonthreatening to him but willing to play along all the same.

“It’s you,” breathes the man, his voice like snowflakes, and Yuuri reaches for him only to find himself grasping at the fog rolling in. Something bumps against his feet. Yuuri looks down, and feels his heart lurch unpleasantly in his chest.

He jolts up in his bed at the hotel, strides into the bathroom, and splashes water onto his face. For a long while, he stares into the mirror, but all he can see is the sight of Phichit Chulanont’s body washed-up at his feet on the bank of the Detroit River.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _when storms arrive, they linger_   
>  _at the edges of your dreams._   
>  _but when all the walls have eyes and ears_   
>  _things are not as they seem._
> 
>  
> 
> also, just a heads up: there is no homophobia in this au because homophobia is uncanonical and overrated. therefore, rule that out as a possible motive ;)
> 
> additional note, in case you haven't picked it up: all the characters are aged up 5 years from their canon ages.


	2. and now you're just a stranger's dream

“Phichit, I dreamt of you again last night. The falls are restless outside my window, and the air is thick with rain. The news tells me there will be some of that later today, actually. I really should have brought my umbrella.”

The lobby of the Boitano Falls Lodge is bustling with people. Between porters wheeling carts, families on vacation, and couples looking to escape, there barely seems to be a spot left uncrossed on the handsome cherry floor of the lobby. In the midst of it all, Yuuri stands with his phone, looking around him at his fellow hotel guests.

After his unpleasant awakening last night, sleep had eluded Yuuri until the early morning. Though he had tried to make himself feel more alert with some cold water and jumping jacks in his room, right now the noise all around him is threatening to overwhelm his senses. As he takes several deep breaths to try and calm the racing of his suddenly-frantic heart, he blinks and — for a moment — sees the smiling face of Phichit Chulanont as he crosses the lobby with a clipboard in his hands.

He blinks again. Phichit is gone.

Yuuri looks around, just to make sure, but there still remains no sign of his former partner. With a sigh, Yuuri switches off the voice memo app, pockets his phone, and strides off in the direction of the lodge’s restaurant.

The restaurant is considerably quieter than the lobby, though it is still fairly busy with all of the guests coming in for breakfast. Yuuri manages to locate a table for two in a section overlooking the falls outside; moments later, a server comes by to take his order.

“What can I get for you today, sir?” she asks.

“Coffee,” replies Yuuri. “And some peach cobbler, if you have any at this hour.”

“I can check for you,” the server replies as she fills his cup with the remnants of her coffee pot and strides away. Yuuri takes out his notebook and starts flipping through the pages, looking at all of his notes from yesterday. Today he’d planned to visit the crime scene and look through the rest of Emil’s personal effects, so already his day is shaping up to be fairly busy.

He only looks up when he sees a shadow fall over his table. A middle-aged woman is standing there, nails the same shocking red as her severe bob drumming idly against the tabletop.

“Can I help you?” Yuuri asks, rising to his feet.

“My name is Nathalie Leroy,” says the woman, extending her hand. Yuuri shakes it, plastering on a smile he’s not quite sure he feels.

“Special Agent Yuuri Katsuki,” he replies.

“May I sit?” she asks. Yuuri smiles.

“It _is_ your hotel, Mrs Leroy, so I can’t stop you.” Saying that, he retakes his own seat. Nathalie pulls out the chair and sits down, folding her hands on the table.

“Actually, my husband and I have equal shares in the business,” she points out, “but that’s neither here nor there. Are you enjoying your stay here, Agent Katsuki?”

“I am,” lies Yuuri. He flashes a brief smile up at the server when she returns, putting down a slice of peach cobbler in front of him. “I’ve yet to try the coffee, though. I had a friend who would once rate the quality of all the hotels we’d stayed in by their coffee. He might have had a spreadsheet.”

Nathalie chuckles. “I hope our coffee is up to snuff, then,” she says.

“I haven’t tried it yet,” says Yuuri, gesturing to his current mug. He then lifts it, takes a sip. Black as a moonless night, bitter as regret. “Not bad,” he says, setting the mug back down.

“I shall consider that on par with a five star review on Yelp,” replies Nathalie with a smile and a wink. She then rests her chin on her hands, tilting her head curiously at him. Yuuri looks up from trying to cut himself a bite of the peach cobbler, and suppresses a groan.

“You didn’t come here to ask me if I liked your coffee,” he remarks.

“No,” agrees Nathalie. “I was just wondering how far you got into the investigation. I know the news is blowing the protests surrounding the film completely out of context, but —”

“Wait.” Yuuri frowns slightly. “You know one of the protesters.”

Nathalie bites her lip. “I wouldn’t say _that_ ,” she begins.

“You either know them or you don’t, Mrs Leroy,” replies Yuuri.

She sighs. “Fair. I know several protesters. My family goes to church with some of them.”

Yuuri nods. “And you don’t like how Mr Nekola’s film twisted Christianity,” he says.

“Well, that’s only the tip of the iceberg,” she replies. “The entire _film_ is extremely twisted. But I don’t condone murder, and I know Father Karpisek would not approve, either, if the killer turned out to be from one of our flock —”

Yuuri sighs, cutting her off with a shake of his head. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you anything about our investigation,” he says. “However, if you do find more information that you’d like to tell me, please call the QAPD and ask to speak to Sheriff Nishigori.”

Nathalie nods and rises to her feet. “Thank you,” she says, and sweeps away from his table. Yuuri returns his attention to his coffee and his cobbler, opening his voice memo app and propping his phone against the rack of sugar packets.

“Phichit, I briefly talked with Nathalie Leroy this morning,” he reports. “She was very vague at first about whether or not she knew any protesters of Mr Nekola’s film. I have the sneaking suspicion that if I asked after her whereabouts on Saturday the seventh of August from 10:30 PM to midnight, she would answer with nothing at all.

“Also, this peach cobbler sucks.”

* * *

Out in the lobby, Nathalie heads straight for the front desk, stepping behind the counter to pick up the phone. She presses a button and listens for a moment, before saying:

“The FBI doesn’t know yet. But they will catch up soon, and when they do, they’ll find him.”

And with that, she hangs up the phone and strides away.

* * *

There’s a click, and a young woman with short black hair replaces the phone on its receiver and grinds out her cigarette in the bedside ashtray.

Slowly, she rises to her feet, looking at herself in the mirror as she rebuttons her pale blue shirt. In the bed behind her, Jean-Jacques Leroy shifts himself into a sitting position, and scrubs his hand through his hair.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he says.

“Doing what?” asks Isabella as she rolls on a pair of nude-coloured stockings.

“You know what I mean,” Jean-Jacques retorts. “This. Meeting in secret under my parents’ noses. What if they find out?”

Isabella looks at him in the mirror, smiling. “JJ, it’s not a crime for two consenting adults to love each other.”

“Sneaking around like this is not how I was raised,” retorts Jean-Jacques. “We either have to break it off, or I’ll have to tell them.”

“You’re so dramatic,” scoffs Isabella as she steps back into her pencil skirt, tucking in her shirt before coming back to the bed and taking a seat next to him. “Your parents already know who I am. What’s stopping you from telling them we love each other?”

Jean-Jacques opens his mouth to say something, but is cut off by a sudden outburst of a cheery, but tinny-sounding song. Isabella laughs, going over to the couch where Jean-Jacques’s trousers are draped over the armrest, and pulls out his mobile.

 _I’m the King JJ no one defeats me! This is who I am_ _baby!_

“Really?” she asks, tossing the phone at him. Jean-Jacques’s cheeks flare bright red as he answers the call.

“Oui?” A pause, and then a sigh. “Où et quand?” A pause. “Non papa, pas maintenant, chuis occupé.” He looks at her, putting a finger to his lips. Isabella winks. “Ouais ouais chuis tout seul.”

Isabella nods, crossing over to the vanity to begin reapplying her makeup.

“Tu sais que jsuis pas d’accord avec cette acquisition,” Jean-Jacques complains. He casts another wary glance at her which she catches in the vanity mirror, so she busies herself with trying to wing her eyeliner. One of them comes out a little more crooked than the other, and she curses quietly, reaching for the wipes. “T’as rencontré le conseiller? Oui?”

The lipstick glides on, bright red and smooth. Jean-Jacques’s words seem to all morph into one another as he speaks faster and faster, only the occasional words dropping off to her ears. She casts a glance towards her purse on the dresser, hoping that her mobile hasn’t run out of battery since she and Jean-Jacques first entered the room.

After a moment, Jean-Jacques hangs up. He tosses the phone next to him on the bed and runs his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry we can’t do lunch today, I have to meet with _papa_ ,” he says, intoning ‘papa’ drily. Isabella raises an eyebrow as she begins to brush out her hair.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” she wonders. “It sounds like you guys have big plans for Maison Leroy.”

“ _His_ big plans, not mine,” replies Jean-Jacques. “Crisse, he’s richer than everyone else in this town put together. He’s been saying for months that he wants me to take a bigger role in managing the company, but he’s yet to hand over any power.”

“Maybe he’s trying to make the transition smoother,” replies Isabella as she puts her pearls back on.

Jean-Jacques snorts. “Since when has my father believed in making anyone’s lives easier?” he wonders darkly, before slumping back against the pillows.

Isabella laughs as she goes over to the bed, straddling him and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’ll get through this,” she says, grinning. “Don’t let your daddy issues get in the way of becoming a king.”

Jean-Jacques laughs. Isabella privately wishes she could take a picture of him right now, shirtless against the sheets with lipstick stains on the corner of his mouth. But instead she ruffles his hair, memorising the brightness of his eyes and the line of his jaw with her eyes.

“I’ll see you later,” Jean-Jacques murmurs.

Isabella laughs. “You’ll see me every time you walk past the concierge desk.”

“I’ll see you soon, then,” he amends, and leans up to kiss her cheek. Isabella then clambers off him, slipping on her pumps as she strides to the dresser to fetch her purse and leave. She pauses at the door, turning back to wave at him. He waves back, every bit the bashful momma’s boy she had first met years ago when she started this job.

She then steps into the hallway of the lodge, entering the elevator at the same time as a Japanese man in a black suit and glasses. As the doors slide shut and the lift begins to descend, Isabella takes out her mobile and turns off the recording app before flicking over to check her texts.

* * *

“Sorry I’m late, Yuuko,” says Yuuri as he meets her at the side of the road, practically spilling out of his car in his haste to get to where she and Leo are leaning against their squad car. “I forgot something in my room and had to go back to retrieve it.”

“It’s fine, we weren’t waiting that long,” replies Yuuko.

“Ten minutes,” adds Leo. Yuuko elbows him. “What?”

Yuuri rubs at his nape, feeling his cheeks heat up in response. “Like I said, I’m so sorry,” he says. “Lead the way.” And he gestures towards the small trail leading off the side of the road.

The trek through the underbrush to the banks of the Columbia River is short, uneventful. The skies are overcast, and the air is thick with the anticipation of rain. Bugs buzz all around them; Yuuri swats a couple away from his face as they finally step free of the trail onto the gravelly little beach.

A Washington State Police officer is already there by the police tape, and after Yuuri flashes his badge he lets them through. Yuuri quickly strides over to the placards marking where Emil Nekola had washed up, looking out at the rapidly-flowing river.

“Forensics gone through this place?” he asks.

“With a fine-toothed comb,” replies Yuuko. “Anything weird has already been taken to the labs for testing.”

“Define ‘weird’,” Yuuri says, flipping open his notebook.

“You’ve seen the photos. There were some rocks with blood stains, his clothes… that was pretty much the extent of it. Took us a moment to ID him after we found him, since he didn’t have a wallet or a phone on him.”

“Probably fell out when he went in the water,” agrees Yuuri. “Any new insights on where?”

“Actually, yes. Diatom readings from the lab indicate that he drowned in Lake Paulsen, near that island over there.” Yuuko comes to stand by him, pointing out across the river. The overcast sky darkens the choppy waters of the lake, renders the trees along the banks into jagged emerald shards. In the break between those trees, the waters of the Columbia are joined by the waters of Lake Paulsen via an inlet divided by a small island. Yuuri follows the direction of Yuuko’s finger, noting the glint of windows and the blurred outline of a boathouse.

“Does it have a name?” he asks.

“Rittberger Island,” replies Yuuko. “It’s private property, though its owner runs a bed and breakfast in his mansion on the island. The Paradise used to be the biggest and best hotel in the area, until the recession in ‘08 caused the ferry company that took people out to Rittberger from Quad Axels to go bankrupt. And then the Leroys bought Boitano Falls Lodge and remodelled it, so the Paradise never stood a chance of recovery.”

“Is it still running?” asks Yuuri, looking out at the distant, tree-covered spires.

“Yes,” says Yuuko, “but barely. Only occasional visitors who book boats in advance, looking to really escape the hustle and bustle of town. Though it’s also developed a bit of a reputation for being the site of, uh, illicit rendezvous.”

Yuuri chuckles, pulling out his mobile. “Phichit,” he reports, “I’m at the crime scene where Emil’s body was found. According to the labs, the diatom readings have placed him roughly at Rittberger Island when he was killed. It’s possible someone at the Paradise Bed and Breakfast on Rittberger Island may have witnessed the murder. I’ll need to follow up on this for more information.” With that, he switches off the voice memo and looks at Yuuko.

“Does the QAPD have a boat I could borrow?”

Yuuko looks to the side, where her deputy is talking with the Washington State Police. Leo comes over, and Yuuko whispers in his ears briefly. He nods, and Yuuko turns back to Yuuri with a smile.

“Leo can take you in his,” she offers, and Yuuri nods.

“That’d be good,” he says, and then begins to head towards the trail leading back to the cars.

* * *

As the suited FBI agent heads back towards the shadows of the forest, a young man across the river watches him go with the aid of a pair of binoculars. Slowly, he lowers them and raises a camera to snap a couple pictures of the agent.

After the agent disappears completely into the forest, the young man lopes off back to where his bike is leaning against a tall sycamore tree. Tossing his camera bag and binoculars into the basket, he hurriedly swings onto the bike and pedals like hell back into town, long blond hair streaming behind him as he coasts along the cracked asphalt of the old logging road and out of sight.

* * *

The loud honk of the car horn jolts Jean-Jacques Leroy out of his stupor. In alarm, he looks over at the driver of their Bentley Mulsanne, who is apparently sending a death glare at an oddly-familiar blond kid on a bicycle.

“Kids these days,” grumbles Alain Leroy as he leans heavily against his seat. “Either they’re plastered to their phones 24/7, or they’re being delinquents in the street. The worst are the ones that do both, if you ask me.”

Jean-Jacques, who had just unlocked his phone to check his Instagram feed, quickly puts his phone away and leans against the window. His father sighs.

“Champagne?” he asks.

Jean-Jacques shakes his head.

“Suit yourself,” replies his father, and moments later there’s the pop of a cork and the emptying of a small bottle of Brut into a sparkling crystal flute. Jean-Jacques turns to look out the window.

The Mulsanne stops in front of a restaurant just off Central Street with a vine-covered terrace. The driver pulls up, lets both Leroys out, and drives off to park the car on the nearby meter. Alain talks with the hostess, while Jean-Jacques smiles and waves at a couple young women in business suits chatting on the terrace. But he can’t linger long, as moments later the hostess leads them into the restaurant.

They are swiftly seated in a booth at the back. Jean-Jacques unfolds the napkin with some trepidation, looking around them warily, while Alain busies himself with perusing the menu set in front of him. Usually their lunches are conducted out on terraces in the midday sun, but clearly today the topic of discussion warrants being shoved into the back corner.

“Are you going to get the chicken?” asks Alain.

“No,” replies Jean-Jacques, a little tersely. The server comes by, fills their water glasses. Alain asks for wine.

“Son,” he says, as soon as the server leaves. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I’m asking for more of your patience.”

“You said you were going to give me a bigger role in the company,” Jean-Jacques retorts.

“I know, but it’s taking longer than I anticipated to get everything ready,” replies Alain.

Jean-Jacques’s eyes narrow. “Papa. _I can do it_.”

“No,” says Alain, and for a moment a flicker of nervousness crosses his stern, grey features. The mask of professional calmness slips in the shadow that flits across his face, and Jean-Jacques immediately finds the condensation gathering on his water glass to be infinitely more interesting. “Just this last acquisition, and the reins will be in your hands right after, I _swear_. Your mother and I would _love_ to retire just as much as _you_ want us to.”

The server comes with wine. Alain orders some appetisers as well as the chicken, and Jean-Jacques gets the lamb. Once the server has left, Alain turns back to his son and rests his chin on his hands, grey eyes scrutinising his face.

“You still disapprove of my plans for another Maison Leroy hotel on Rittberger Island,” he remarks.

Jean-Jacques sighs. “There’s no point,” he replies. “Renovating the old dump of a mansion on that island is going to cost more than it’s worth. No one wants to go there, anyway. Not with its new reputation and all the town gossip. It’s a liability.”

“The consultants seem to think it could become a great asset,” replies Alain, as the server comes back with the appetisers and a basket of bread. “And any reputation can be turned right around with the right sort of branding. I’d have thought you’d learnt that at Harvard, Mr _JJ Style_?”

Jean-Jacques flushes. Alain chuckles, spearing himself an olive and popping it into his mouth.

“Just imagine, JJ. Maison Leroy’s executive Rittberger Island Cabins. Only the best of the best can stay there, which will let us rebrand the lodge as more of a family-oriented hotel. And you could be the one to take the company in this direction.”

“But you’re going to be the one to make the acquisition,” JJ points out.

Alain nods. “Yes. Because I’ve got a plan for how to make that work in our favour.”

* * *

The humming of the motor on Deputy de la Iglesia’s boat eases to a stop as he pulls it up at an old, weathered dock by the boathouse. Through the dirty glass doors, Yuuri looks in to see faded paddleboats and algae-covered canoes, bobbing pathetically in the murky green water.

Deputy de la Iglesia hops out onto the dock. “Toss me that rope, Agent Katsuki,” he says.

Yuuri complies. “You can call me Yuuri, Deputy de la Iglesia,” he says.

“And you can call me Leo,” Leo replies as he ties the rope to the pile at the end of the dock. He then extends a hand to help Yuuri up. “I think the last time I came out here was before the ferry company went under!”

“You were probably pretty young then,” Yuuri remarks. “Remember anything?”

“Oh, yeah.” Leo grins. “We’d come out here for the Fourth of July because it has the best views of the town’s firework display. The old managers of the Paradise would host a cookout every Fourth of July, and charge five bucks a head for all the hot dogs and lemonade you could ever want.”

“Sounds like a good deal,” remarks Yuuri.

“Abuela has several albums of photos specifically of our summers here,” agrees Leo, as they begin the trek up the dusty dirt road towards the mansion hidden in the trees.

It doesn’t take them long to reach the front gates of the mansion, which swing open as soon as Leo presses a buzzer and flashes his badge at the security camera. Yuuri follows him, marvelling at the pristine grounds with their carefully-manicured hedges. The marble fountain in the centre of the driveway, however, is silent and covered in parts by algae and moss, with dried leaves lingering in puddles of rainwater in its basin. It depicts a young woman lounging on a shell, with pearls in her long, wavy hair.

Then the mansion itself takes his breath away. Tall and imposing, it seems to loom down on him like some great titan from the past. But as he gets closer he notices that some of the windows are cracked, that not every single hedge is trimmed, and that the paint on many of the wood finishes are peeling off or fading. It’s a house desperate to maintain some semblance of dignity, a relic of some bygone era cast at the mercy of progress.

Yuuri steps up the cracked stone staircase to the old door of the mansion, and rings the doorbell. Somewhere deep within, a chime tolls.

The door then creaks open on a chain, and a young man with hazel eyes and stubble pokes his head through. “Can I help you?” he asks.

Yuuri and Leo flash their badges. “Special Agent Yuuri Katsuki and QAPD Deputy Sheriff Leo de la Iglesia,” Yuuri says. “We have some questions we’d like to ask you. Are you the owner of this house?”

“Just a moment,” says the man, and the door closes. There’s the sound of a chain sliding off, and then the door opens again to show that the man has curly blond hair and is wearing a v-neck t-shirt and jeans. “You two must be _hot_ in those uniforms. Come on in.”

Yuuri has the sneaking suspicion the man might have meant more than one interpretation of his phrase, considering that it’s not all that hot outside, but he steps inside anyway.

“Interesting choice, bolting up the front door of a hotel,” he says.

“Can’t be too careful these days,” replies the man. “And no, I don’t own this place. I just manage the bed and breakfast side of it, when there’s people looking for a bed and breakfast.” He extends a hand. “Christophe Giacometti. My husband is currently preparing our lunch; I could ask him to get you two some water if you’re thirsty.”

“That’d be great,” says Leo.

Christophe smiles, briefly, and leads them to a sitting room just off the foyer. “Wait here,” he says, and disappears. Yuuri looks around at the antique wood furnishings and the red velvet drapes hung over the tall windows, and turns to find Leo brushing some dust off the fall board of a Steinway grand piano.

“This is amazing,” Leo remarks, his face obviously full of longing even as he takes a step away from the piano and goes to stand by Yuuri near the fireplace. Yuuri looks up at the portrait above the mantel, his breath temporarily seizing in his throat at the sight of a handsome young man dressed in a waistcoat and a cravat with a blue rose on his lapel. The light streaking through his long silver hair makes him look like he’s crowned in pearls, and the sparkle in his eyes makes him look almost alive. Like he’s timing his breaths to the blink of Yuuri’s eyes.

There’s a sudden bark, and an old brown standard poodle comes loping in, his entire body shaking with the excitement of his wagging tail. Yuuri laughs as he kneels down to pet the poodle, making a mental note to update Phichit’s dogspotting spreadsheet. He’s pet a lot of dogs since Belle Isle, after all; Phichit probably would’ve wanted him to keep him posted.

But as always, thinking about Phichit makes his heart clench a little, so Yuuri resorts to tangling his fingers in the soft curly fur of the old poodle, making little kissy noises at him and laughing as he licks his face.

Christophe enters moments later with two glasses of water, which he hands to them with a smile. Yuuri sips his with some trepidation, watching Christophe take a seat on the nearby couch and fold his hands in his lap.

“I see you’ve met Makkachin,” says Christophe. “He’s the owner’s pet. Probably has been around as long as his master, though.”

“The man in that portrait?” asks Yuuri, nodding towards the painting of the silver-haired man. With a final pat, he straightens up from Makkachin, who whines a little and goes over to Christophe for more scritches.

Christophe offers them easily enough. “No,” he says, as Makkachin raises a paw to his knee to beg for more the instant his hands still. “That’s his father. Well, he tells me that, but he looks exactly like his father, so in a way you could probably say it is a portrait of him.”

Yuuri laughs at that. “What, you think your employer is some sort of vampire?” he asks.

“I never said that,” replies Christophe. “I mean, this isn’t _Human by Choice_ , after all — though Mr Nikiforov also looks _very_ similar to the actor for that guy on the show.”

“Does he now?” wonders Yuuri, turning back to look at the portrait. Its eyes glitter at him, shining enigmatically in the muted grey light streaming in through the window. “And where is Mr Nikiforov currently?”

“Out of town,” says Christophe, looking intently down at where he’s scratching Makkachin behind his ears.

“How long has he been out of town?” asks Leo.

“He only comes here occasionally,” replies Christophe. “Apparently he spends a lot of time with family in Europe. He sails a lot, surfs, swims — none of which can be done here, so he’s pretty much always on the go.”

“Lifestyle of the rich and famous,” agrees Yuuri, before downing his glass of water. “Do you remember when he was last here, though?”

“You just missed him,” says Christophe. “He’s gone to some sort of wine festival near Niagara Falls. I suppose he’ll be back within a week, though.”

“What about August? Was he here around early August? Since his property is very close to where we imagine the attack took place, we were wondering if he — or you and your husband — might have seen anything.”

Christophe bites his lip at that, pauses to consider it as he strokes Makkachin’s fur. “We didn’t see or hear anything,” he says after a moment. “Did the attack really take place near this island?”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “You’re sure you heard nothing?”

“Yeah. It was a quiet night in for us. We only had a couple guests — I could show you the guestbook with their contact info if you’re interested. Business isn’t that great for us because we’re too isolated from the rest of the town now, and people don’t like having to take a boat and then drive to get downtown.”

“So you just get a lot of people who are looking to be isolated,” Leo remarks.

“Well, contrary to popular opinion, we don’t usually see a lot of extramarital affairs, either,” Christophe intones drily.

“I’d like to see that guestbook,” Yuuri chips in. Christophe swiftly rises to his feet, nodding in agreement as he leads them out of the room. Makkachin follows them into the foyer, before getting distracted by the smells coming from the kitchen and running off.

At the front desk, Christophe goes around to the other end and pulls out the guestbook, tossing it onto the counter with a little more force than strictly necessary. Yuuri raises an eyebrow as he flips to the early August dates, running a finger down the page.

“Do you also have online booking?” he asks.

Christophe nods. “We do, but the ledger is a little more comprehensive, as we’re small enough to ask everyone who stays with us to sign it.”

“How far back does this one go?” wonders Yuuri, noting that the book seems to be currently near the middle with its entries.”

“January,” says Christophe. “Business is slow, but there’s some occasional bursts of activity, usually when the Lodge is full for some reason.”

Yuuri hums in thought. “Can I take pictures?” he asks.

Christophe nods, so Yuuri gets out his phone and snaps a couple pictures of the entries for the dates around August 7th and 8th. He’s about to flip ahead in the month, when he notices a familiar name in the ledger for July 31st. _Emil Nekola and Michele Crispino_. One night, paid in cash. A single room with one bed.

“Emil Nekola stayed here on July 31st?” he asks.

Christophe raises an eyebrow. “He stayed here a lot, actually,” he says. “If you flip back, you’ll see that he actually rented out the entire mansion for a week to film in it.”

Yuuri does, fingers ghosting along the relevant entries. “What was he like?”

“We had to be very quiet all the time,” replies Christophe. “So Masumi and I would just give him the keys and then spend the day in town with Makkachin. We figured they wouldn’t want the dog around on set, and Makka can get very excitable around strangers.”

“So no disagreements or conflicts?”

“Are you accusing us of something?”

“No, no,” Yuuri feels his ears turning red. “I just want to know the story. It only benefits you if you’re completely honest with me — unless you’ve really got something to hide.”

Christophe opens his arms. “I’m all yours, then,” he replies, winking. The redness seeps from Yuuri’s ears across his face, and he busies himself with turning back the pages of the register instead.

“What about, uh, Mr Nikiforov? Did he ever show up during filming?”

“I think he did once, on the fifteenth,” says Christophe. “He, uh, might have been an extra that day. Masumi and I came back from town to see him talking with the PAs over pizza.”

“So it sounds like he was totally fine with them filming in his house.” Yuuri closes the register with a smile. “Thank you, Mr Giacometti.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” replies Christophe. Yuuri feels his cheeks heating up again, and busies himself with taking one of the cards on the counter instead.

“We’ll be in touch if we have further questions,” he offers. Christophe nods, and Yuuri shakes his hand before making his way out the door.

“What do you think?” Leo asks, as they make their way out towards the dock.

Yuuri purses his lips. “He’s hiding something.”

* * *

“Sara,” says Mila during a lull in the early afternoon rush. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Sara looks up from where she’s been entering tips from receipts. “Okay,” she says, and follows Mila into the back past the kitchen area to a storage closet. The summer heat is stifling in this room; Mila flicks on the bare bulb in the centre to cast some light into the room before closing the door with a click.

There’s barely a moment for breath between them before Mila is kissing her, backing her up against the door with a soft, needy moan. Sara gasps as Mila’s lips wander along her jaw, as Mila’s hands move down to rest at her waist. All she can do in response is arch up into the touch, her head tossing back as her own arms loop around Mila’s shoulders.

“Mila,” she gasps when they break for air. “What —”

“Shh,” breathes Mila, silencing her with a kiss for good measure. Sara’s hands slip down to cup Mila’s cheeks, holding her head in place as she moves her lips away.

“You haven’t done something like this in years,” she says, frowning slightly. “What changed?”

“I…” Mila falters, her eyes searching Sara’s own for a moment before she sighs, and takes a step back. “I don’t know,” she confesses. “I’m starting to wonder if what we’re doing is a good idea.”

“This?” asks Sara, gesturing between them. “Or are you thinking about the…”

“Yeah,” says Mila, nodding. “I thought… I thought they’d just… Emil’s dead and the FBI are investigating and — I’m so _worried_ , Sara. I’m so worried that they’re going to think we had something — something to do with this.”

Sara sighs, pressing her forehead against Mila. “We didn’t,” she says, quiet and emphatic. “We did nothing wrong, cara mia. And soon we won’t have to worry about _any_ of this anymore.”

She presses kisses from Mila’s ear down her jaw. Mila shivers in her arms, despite the stifling heat of the room.

“Just think. A town where no one knows our name. A little bistro, with a small apartment above it. A fresh start for both you and me, partners in every sense of the word.”

“And what about Mickey?” wonders Mila.

“He’ll be _out of the picture_ ,” replies Sara. She takes Mila’s hand, presses kisses to the fluttering pulse point on her wrist. “And we’ll be _free_.”

* * *

Emil Nekola’s belongings take up an entire corner of the evidence locker, the majority of it carefully bagged and labelled.

“We had all the film equipment, too, but then the producer asked that we return the rentals,” Yuuko explains as Yuuri looks through the boxes. “So most of the film stuff is gone. But the footage is still here, as well as the stuff that belongs to the crew.”

“You can return that,” says Yuuri. “He wasn’t killed near his cabin.” He pokes around in the suitcases, nose wrinkling at the musty smell. “Smoked a lot, did he?”

“A lot of his crew did,” says Yuuko, chuckling. “High-stress environment, after all.”

“Hm, I heard the gaffer burned through three packs every day,” agrees Yuuri. “He wasn’t among the people I interviewed, though.”

“No, he went back to the UK,” says Yuuko. “And I’m afraid his statement is useless, unless you’re actually interested in a load of philosophical ramblings about ‘alienation from the rapid onset of technological progress’.”

“I’ll pass.” Yuuri smiles brightly. “I don’t think any of the crew did it, to be honest. Most of them have alibis, or lack motive. Besides, if we’re treating these cases as linked, then you’d also have to take into consideration whether or not any of them were in Detroit five years ago when the Belle Isle unsub was working. So I asked an analyst friend at Quantico to cross-check the records for me, and they got nothing. The film crew is off the hook.”

“What about the cast, then?” wonders Yuuko.

“The little girl who was the protagonist of the film was only two at the time of the Belle Isle drownings,” Yuuri points out baldly. “I’m pretty sure she didn’t do it.”

Yuuko laughs. “You know what I mean, Yuuri.”

“Most of them weren’t even in town at the time.” Yuuri zips up the suitcases again, and continues to rifle through the boxes. “You got people to search his laptop?” he asks.

Yuuko nods. “Nothing. He’d wiped his hard drive.”

“ _Really_ ,” Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “And that doesn’t seem odd to you?”

“He got death threats for his film. I reckoned he was just paranoid and did a good job of hiding it from everyone else.”

Yuuri hums. “I can try to get my friend down here to salvage whatever he deleted, if it was him who did that,” he says, pulling out his mobile. After a moment, he frowns. “Have you guys dragged the area around the island for a phone or a wallet, then?”

Yuuko shakes her head. “Private property, remember? We’ll need a warrant.”

“See if you can get that going, then,” replies Yuuri. “I mean, there’s no phone or wallet in his possessions here, and I know you guys also searched his car in addition to his house. So either those things fell out while he was in the water, or —”

“The killer has it,” says Yuuko, nodding. Yuuri smiles, brief and tight, before turning to his own mobile. He presses a button.

“Seung-gil? Yeah, it’s me. Listen — I need you to come out here and help me recover some files from a wiped hard drive.”

* * *

_Looks like summer’s really over with the arrival of the last of the summer thunderstorms! A back to school storm is anticipated in Paulsen County tomorrow, arriving around midnight tonight and leaving for Seattle by the early afternoon tomorrow. We’re looking at two to three inches of rain, and winds of up to 32 miles per hour_ …

There’s an ominous rolling in the distance, and the wind is already starting to pick up stray fallen leaves outside the window of the Cherry Flip, a little pastry shop and café just a block from the police station. Yuuri leans back in his seat, looking at his reflection in the window. On the table in front of him, a half-eaten slice of peach cobbler sits next to a cup of drip coffee.

“Phichit, I may have found the best peach cobbler in town. It’s only the second day, so I may be proven wrong eventually. But just so you know, you know, in case you ever come down here — go to the Cherry Flip. The coffee’s a little weak, but at least you can purchase a bottomless cup and they’ll keep coming ‘round to refill it.”

He closes the voice memo app and leans forward to take another bite, closing his eyes as he savours the juicy, tangy peaches alongside its sweet, crumbly topping. It brings him back to a sweltering summer afternoon in Detroit, with Phichit bent over an old oven in the apartment they’d rented on the Bureau’s dime while investigating the Belle Isle drownings:

_“My freshman roommate was an avid baker,” Phichit said as he turned the oven light on again and peered into the depths, while Yuuri tried his hardest not to look like he was visibly drooling at the smell of baking peach. “Said there was nothing that could hurt a human soul without something sweet to remedy it.”_

_“And he taught you this recipe?” Yuuri asked. “It’s not exactly a Thai recipe, after all.”_

_“This one?” Phichit laughed. “We perfected it together. I call it ‘the World’s Most Effective Heartbreak Cure’. One bite, and you’ll forget who the heck dumped you at that party in the first place.”_

_“I wasn’t_ dumped _,” Yuuri insisted, frowning._

 _“You woke up_ half-naked  _in the_ pool _,” Phichit pointed out. “Considering you spent most of the night attached at the hip to some ridiculously attractive Russian supermodel or something, I’d have to say it looks like a standard case of the kiss-and-dump to me.”_

 _“And I still don’t remember_ any _of it.” Yuuri rubbed at his temples. “Still could do with some of your heartbreak cure, anyway.”_

_“That’s the spirit,” agreed Phichit, checking the cobbler again. “You know, this got me thinking about about the profiles we’ve already drawn up —”_

“ — Hey. Agent guy. What’s wrong with you?”

Yuuri blinks, the memory slipping away as he looks up at a young man with shoulder-length blond hair and a dark brown hoodie with the words ‘CalArts’ on it in bright yellow. “Can I help you?” he asks.

The legs of the chair across the table from him squeak as the young man takes a seat next to him. Yuuri opens his mouth again in protest, as he had been saving the spot for Yuuko who still had to finish some paperwork at the station, but the young man levels him a steady glare and he backs off, frowning as he sips his coffee.

“You’re investigating the death of Emil Nekola,” says the young man.

“I am,” agrees Yuuri.

“I’m Yuri Plisetsky,” says the young man.

“What can I do for you, Yuri Plisetsky?” wonders Yuuri.

Yuri looks a little taken aback for a moment, before covering it with a scowl and shifting forward on the table, threading his fingers together and resting his chin on them. “Have you read up on any of the town’s legends?”

Yuuri gapes at him for a moment, before scrambling to recover himself. “I, uh, I’ve only been in town for a day, Mr Plisetsky.”

“Almost two now,” says Yuri, shrugging. “You’ve made any headway on the investigation? Gotten any suspects? Made any arrests?”

Yuuri swallows. “I can’t say anything,” he replies.

“So you’ve done nothing.”

“I didn’t say that,” replies Yuuri, not without a little defensiveness. “Are you a journalist? If you are, I’d like you to direct your enquiries to the Quad Axels Police Department —”

But Yuri is shaking his head. “Just a concerned citizen,” he says. “And I just wanted to let you know that there’s something darker in this town. Something in the lake.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “Do you… have _proof_ of that?” he asks. “I feel like people would be pretty resentful of me for using tax dollars on a wild goose chase, if you don’t have anything.”

“I met it,” replied Yuri. “It tried to drown me when I was a —”

“Yurio, don’t bother the nice FBI agent with your crazy conspiracy theories.”

The two of them look up at the interruption to see another man with black hair cut into an undercut, wearing a black leather jacket with his sunglasses on his head. The change in Yuri’s body language is almost instantaneous — he tenses up even further, clenching his fists and his jaws and scowling more wholeheartedly than Yuuri had seen him do earlier.

“JJ,” Yuri grinds out. “Get. _Out_.”

JJ laughs. “It’s really quirky of you to still believe in ghost stories, eh?” he wonders, though he takes a step back the moment Yuri launches out of his chair to seize him by the collar. “Woah, woah. Calm down. Did I strike a nerve?”

“You get on my nerves by _existing_ , JJ,” Yuri spits. “If there weren’t an FBI agent here, I’d —”

“I could leave,” Yuuri offers, looking around him awkwardly. The other patrons of the café are watching the spectacle, and even though Yuuri knows he did nothing to start it he still feels like he’s being held under a bright spotlight. He briefly considers moving his cobbler and coffee to another table, but there don’t seem to be any open ones within sneaking distance.

“You’d what?” teases JJ. “Go on. Tell the federal agent what you’d like to do with me.”

Yuri’s eyes bulge in anger and resentment. “Shut up,” he growls. “Just shut up and leave. No one cares about your stupid opinion.”

“You know, that was really cute when you were an edgy sixteen-year-old, but it’s kind of lost its sting since then,” JJ laments.

“And it looks like you still haven’t stopped being a sociopathic asshole, but I guess they reward you for that at Harvard,” retorts Yuri, his knuckles white on his chair. “Get the fuck out of my face, Leroy.” And with that he rises to his feet and elbows his way past JJ on his way out the door.

JJ turns to Yuuri, his smile blindingly cheery. “Sorry to bother you, Agent Katsuki,” he offers. “Yuri Plisetsky’s kind of a weirdo. He’s been like that since he came out of the lake in the third grade claiming some sort of lake monster tried to kill him.”

Yuuri suddenly realises that his jaw has been extremely tense all the while, and forces himself to relax. “I think I can make my own judgements on who’s a ‘weirdo’, Mr…”

“Leroy,” says JJ. “Jean-Jacques. Everyone calls me JJ, though.”

“Right.” Yuuri folds his hands on the table. “I’d like to approach this case impartially, Mr _Leroy_. The next time you interrupt someone trying to give me information, I’ll arrest you for obstructing a federal investigation.”

JJ opens his mouth, as if to contest the fact that he couldn’t, in fact, be charged with obstruction for interrupting someone. Yuuri narrows his eyes instead, and JJ shuts his mouth with an audible snap.

“Sorry,” he says. Yuuri’s smile slides on almost out of habit.

“Apology accepted,” he replies. “Now let me eat my cobbler in peace.”

He hears JJ’s footsteps beating a hasty retreat as he lowers his gaze to his coffee. The server comes by and fills it up again, and Yuuri stirs in a packet of sugar before taking a sip, wincing at how it burns his tongue.

He knows it’s not reasonable to solve the case within a day of arriving here, especially since the original Belle Isle drownings took months of investigating between him and Phichit. Still, it stings a little to see the rest of the town barging in to tell him how he should conduct his own damn investigation.

He’s not the best, he knows. Just a dime a dozen profiler originally hailing from the backwaters of Hasetsu, Hawaii. It’d been five years since his last visit home, five years since everything hadn’t felt like a waking nightmare. Five years since he really felt like he wasn’t falling, spiralling into a void of uncertainty and doubt about his skills and his ability to deliver justice to the victims of violent crimes across the country.

Five years without Phichit. Yuuri takes another bite of the peach cobbler, and puts his head in his hands.

“Phichit, a young man named Yuri Plisetsky suggested that I take a look at the local supernatural phenomena. Before I could ask him for further details, we were interrupted by Jean-Jacques Leroy, son of the same Nathalie I encountered this morning. I can’t help but wonder if that interruption had been opportunistic, or intentional. I wish you’d been here to see it. You were always better at reading people, seeing the connections between them. I feel like I’m just running around collecting bits and pieces of evidence like a dog playing fetch.”

He laughs, hating the bitterness in his voice as he continues.

“I’ve been fetching all these bones, Phichit, but I don’t know what kind of animal they’re coming from. Isn’t that stupid? Your death threw off the entire victim profile, so now I’m back to square one. Nothing makes sense anymore.”

He cuts himself another slice of cobbler, just as someone clears their throat near him. Slowly, he pauses his recording and looks up to see Yuuko Nishigori standing there, her expression concerned as she tugs off her windbreaker.

“Was Phichit your former partner?” she asks quietly.

* * *

Yuuri Katsuki might have forgotten about her — it does sometimes happen when you lose touch with childhood friends who move away — but Yuuko Nishigori remembers the first time he showed up in the news.

“ _The Bureau is following several leads at present about the mysterious drownings at Belle Isle_ ,” Yuuri was saying, looking into the TV cameras with that familiar intense look on his face.  _“In the meantime, my partner and I implore the citizens of Detroit to exercise caution and report any suspicious activity you may see down by the waterfront. We cannot allow this killer to strike again_.”

But the killer had struck again. And again. The bodies piled up. The others lost faith. Yuuko had watched her childhood friend’s expression grow sadder and sadder, until —

“Yeah.”

Yuuko takes a seat across from Yuuri. “I remember seeing something about it on the news. My girls were only six at the time, but they had been following the news. Phichit Chulanont was all they’d talk about for weeks.”

Yuuri fidgets with the handle of his mug, obviously  discomfited. “I was barely allowed to see the body,” he says. “They had me in and out of the morgue in five minutes and showed me the autopsy report after.” He sighs, swirling some cream into his coffee and watching the white and brown bleed into one another. “His mother was notified, too; she flew in from Bangkok and had him cremated the next week. I never even got to say goodbye.”

“You think she blames you for his death?” wonders Yuuko.

“I don’t know,” says Yuuri. “It’d be easier if she came out and said it, of course. I don’t blame her for blaming me. I blame myself all the time.”

“What’s past is past. Don’t beat yourself up about it.” Yuuko sighs, reaching across the table to pat his hand. “I can’t imagine how hard it’s been for you these past years, Yuuri, but I hope you know you’re not alone. Takeshi, the girls, and I are here now.”

Yuuri laughs a little at that. “I know,” he says. “I started recording my cases to make it feel like he was still here. It makes me feel better.” _It honours him_ , his eyes seem to say, and Yuuko smiles in understanding as she pats his hand again.

“As long as you feel better,” she says. “Have you talked about him with any new partners?”

“I’ve been either working with the unit as a whole or going solo,” says Yuuri, shaking his head. “My unit chief doesn’t think I’m ready for another partner, and I agree.”

“Don’t know if letting someone in again will end badly?” Yuuko’s grin is shit-eating.

Yuuri pauses. “Are we talking partners at the Bureau, or uh… _other_ partners?”

Yuuko raises an eyebrow. “Do you have _other_ partners?” she wonders with a wink. A server comes by, adding onto the bright crimson blush spreading across Yuuri’s face, and for a moment he looks less like an FBI agent and more like a tortoise in a suit trying to retract back into his shell. Yuuko laughs a little, and orders for herself a bottomless cup of coffee and a danish.

Yuuri glowers at her the moment the server walks away. “I — _no_!” he hisses. “Phichit and I weren’t like that, for the record. None of that Seymour-and-Marlow soap opera drama going on. The media _really_ oversells the idea that FBI agents love to ‘fraternise’ with each other, you know.”

“You sound _very_ defensive,” Yuuko points out, crossing her arms and grinning.

“Shut up.” But there’s no edge to his words. Yuuko chuckles, and after a moment the faintest hint of a smile quirks at Yuuri’s lips.

“Honestly, though,” Yuuko says after a moment. “You’re still young, you look great in a suit, and you’re an FBI agent. How are you still single?”

“Since when does ‘being an FBI agent’ get me anything other than jokes about running background checks on people I might want to date?” wonders Yuuri, rolling his eyes.

Yuuko snorts. “My deputy once hooked up with someone by offering to stop and frisk them,” she says, and Yuuri nearly spits out his coffee at that. He coughs wildly instead, his face now completely red, and takes a sip of water to try and recover himself.

“I can’t believe Leo would do something like that,” he remarks, just as his phone begins to ring. He accepts the call almost immediately, rising to his feet and exiting the shop as he does so.

Yuuko watches him outside, pacing along under the awning. Fat droplets of rain are starting to fall along with the remaining sunlight; the storm has arrived in town early. She watches him pause, facing the street, and then turn northwards, rubbing agitatedly at his temples.

After a while, he returns, slipping his phone into his pocket. Without a word he scarfs down the rest of his food and drink, and swings on his blazer and windbreaker before slamming down a couple wadded bills.

“Tell them they can keep the change,” he says.

“You’re leaving?” asks Yuuko, frowning. “I thought we were catching up.”

“I need to follow something,” says Yuuri. He swallows, shuffles his feet. “If I don’t text you by midnight, alert my unit chief SSA Celestino Cialdini.”

“This seems really reckless, Yuuri,” Yuuko points out, watching helplessly as her childhood friend buttons himself back below his defenses. “What if you end up like Phichit?”

“I’ll be better prepared,” says Yuuri. “I’ll bring a gun.”

And with that he vanishes out the door of the café.

* * *

The apartment is dark, save for the flashes of white from the lightning streaking outside the window and the blue glow of a television screen. Sara Crispino steps in, closing the door behind her quietly. The sound of a throat being cleared causes her to jump.

“It’s late,” Mickey’s voice echoes, followed by the click and silence of the television being muted. In the darkness of the room, the blue glow flickering over his face casts his expression in an ominous eeriness.

Sara pauses in hanging up her purse and umbrella, and sighs. “I was with Mila,” she says.

“You said you’d be home by eight. Also, Mila’s supposed to be working tonight.”

“I was at the bar,” replies Sara, turning around to hang up her coat. “As a customer.”

Mickey’s brows furrow deeper. “You’re hiding something,” he accuses. Outside the window there’s the crack of thunder. Sara jumps a little.

“I’m not hiding anything, Mickey,” she says. “Besides, it’s none of your business what I do on my night off.”

“A brother can’t know his baby sister’s safe? There’s a _killer_ out there, Sar, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you were hurt.”

Sara sighs. She steps over to her brother, presses a kiss to his forehead. “Don’t worry, Mickey,” she says. “I was a good girl. I only drank a little with Mila. And I sobered up before I got home.”

Mickey sighs. “Still, you’re two hours late,” he grumbles, slumping into the armchair. Sara chuckles.

“Mila and I got a bit carried away,” she replies. He doesn’t need to know just how ‘carried away’ they got. Thank God Mila knows to only leave marks that can be covered by clothing.

Mickey shakes his head. “Don’t do it again,” he says.

“Didn’t you say you had laundry?” wonders Sara, already heading for his room.

She grabs his hamper by the door and drags it back out their apartment, taking the creaky old elevator down into the basement. There’s another burst of lightning and thunder, which makes her flinch as she steps down the dimly-lit hallway down to the laundry room.

The laundry room opens with a creak, and Sara has to pull the chain to turn on the light, but once she’s inside she quickly locates a washing machine and begins to load it.

“Stupid Mickey,” she grumbles, as the thunder rolls again. “Leaving his laundry until the last stupid minute —”

Her hands touch something dried. She holds it up. It’s the button-down shirt Mickey had worn the night of the wrap party, all those weeks ago. She’d thought it was strange that he had been rummaging around the fridge for some wine at three in the morning in just his tank top, but she hadn’t thought anything of it until now.

It’s the button-down shirt Mickey had worn the night of the wrap party, and it’s covered in blood.

* * *

_The storm’s hit us early tonight, at least two hours ahead of schedule. Buckle down, everyone, because some parts of town are reporting wind speeds of up to 35 miles per hour, and all of this is forecasted to last through the next day —_

“Could we watch something other than the weather or the news for once?” Christophe wonders as he leans against the top of the armchair. His husband Masumi rolls his eyes, opening up the TV guide.

“What did you have in mind? A game of some sort?” he wonders, idly scrolling through the channels on the guide. Christophe reaches down, rubs at Makkachin’s head. The poodle growls idly, and then rests his head back in Masumi’s lap.

“They’re doing reruns of _Criminal Profiles_ on that one channel,” says Christophe, pointing. Masumi selects it, and a preview of the episode begins to play. “Oh, gross, it’s the one about the guy who drowns and resuscitates people. A bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

“Mm, yeah,” Masumi changes the channel. “How about this one? _Prince of the Rock_ : a young prince finds himself drawn into the rock band shenanigans of his latest crush. That sounds adorable, don’t you think?”

Christophe snorts. “If you want adorable, ABC Family’s airing _Professor Charming_ again.” He swipes the remote from Masumi and scrolls down to the selection. “Professor Chen’s embarrassing crush on his colleague is supposedly the worst-kept secret at Boarfreckle Boarding School for Witches and Wizards. A _classic_.”

“I love that entire series,” Masumi declares.

“I know. That’s why we’re married,” Christophe teases, pressing a kiss into his husband’s hair. There’s a sudden knock at the door, and he peels away with a sigh to go answer it.

A flash of lighting. A crash of thunder. Yuuri Katsuki is standing on the front steps of the mansion, bedraggled from the storm and wild-eyed from having to travel in such terrible weather. Christophe immediately lets him in, closing the doors with a thud behind him.

“What brings you out here this time of night, Agent Katsuki?” he asks, as the man divests himself of his dripping windbreaker. He’s still got on his blazer underneath, though his trousers and shoes are sodden and muddy from the trek up from the dock.

“I got a call saying that you wanted to talk?” Agent Katsuki asks.

Christophe frowns. “I don’t remember making such a call,” he says.

Agent Katsuki sighs, pinches at the bridge of his nose. “I know the master of this house hasn’t left yet,” he says after a moment. “The Niagara Falls Wine Festival isn’t until the twelfth.”

“Is it, really?” Christophe takes a step back towards the lounge, his eyes wide and his stomach curling in alarm. He notices, very suddenly, that Agent Katsuki has a gun in a holster by his side. “I had no idea.”

“Lying to an FBI agent is a federal offense, you know,” Agent Katsuki adds, though there’s not much spark in his eyes at that. “I don’t _want_ to distrust you, Mr Giacometti, but if you can’t be honest with me —”

There’s a loud crack from behind them, a combination of the door suddenly slamming open and a crash of thunder from outside. The wind begins to howl more ferociously; in the next flash of lighting Christophe can barely make out the pitch-black shapes of trees swaying in the wind.

Agent Katsuki’s breath suddenly hitches, and Christophe turns to find him gaping at a figure in the doorway.

Slowly, the figure straightens up, smooths back his silver fringe from his face. His clothes — a thin white cotton shirt and navy trousers — are almost translucent from the rain, clinging like a second skin onto his muscular form. His limbs are lissome yet heavy as he staggers across the threshold, like seaweed washed up on the shore and given life. Considering the state of his clothes and the storm outside, he should look the very picture of monstrous misery, but the instant his eyes meet Agent Katsuki’s, his face breaks out in a radiant smile more potent and startling than sunshine.

“Special Agent Yuuri Katsuki,” remarks Viktor Nikiforov as he extends his hand. “I’m so happy to have found you again.”

And as the silence stretches to a palpable tension between the two, Christophe looks around and suddenly realises that the storm outside has inexplicably stopped.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _o soul of mine, my darling,_   
>  _what a merry chase you lead!_   
>  _for guilt and virtue lie now entwined_   
>  _within the one who bleeds._   
> 
> 
> “Oui? Où et quand? Non papa, pas maintenant, chuis occupé. Ouais ouais chuis tout seul.” = "Yes? Where and when? No, papa, not now, I'm busy. Yeah yeah I'm all alone."  
> “Tu sais que jsuis pas d’accord avec cette acquisition." = "You know I don't want this acquisition."  
> “T’as rencontré le conseiller? Oui?” = "You've met with the consultant? Yes?"
> 
> thank you to proserpine for helping with the french!
> 
> next update: a sunday. maybe not this upcoming one but the one after? i do have some other things to take care of (like the GRE) before i can really get into the swing of things (you may notice there's a final planned number of chapters now) so yeah don't hold me to that


	3. if my head is full of you is there nothing i can do

Yuuri is warm.

Yuuri is very, very warm.

In more ways than just physically. He’d been urged out of his clothes and into a bath by Christophe, and then wrapped in a bathrobe and a towel and sat in front of a fire that had been stoked by Christophe’s husband. But the warmth he’s feeling right now isn’t coming from the fire; it seems to be radiating out from his heart, seeping through his blood like a drug the longer he looks at the man currently lounging in the armchair next to his.

The man, who is currently wearing a matching fluffy white bathrobe that barely clings to his slender yet muscular frame, smiles at him.

Yuuri’s heart sprints a thousand miles without leaving his chest.

“So, an FBI agent, hm?” asks the beautiful man. “I didn’t know that. I do love a man in uniform.”

Yuuri’s tongue feels like lead. He hasn’t felt like this since his first mock press conference at Quantico, fielding his classmates’ questions while offering absolutely no crucial details to the investigation. He fiddles with the corner of his towel instead, and wonders if it would be too rude to ask the house to swallow him whole and never spit him back out.

“I spent five years wondering who you were,” the beautiful man continues, leaning forward on his knees and observing Yuuri like he’s some exotic specimen of butterfly trapped in a bell jar. “And here you are at last.”

 _Who are you_? Yuuri wants to ask. _Who are you, and why do you talk to me like we know each other_? But there’s something striking in the man’s eyes, something beautiful and enigmatic and somehow _so_ familiar. He must have seen those eyes before; how could he have ever forgotten?

“ _Do you believe in love at first sight_?” The TV suddenly jerks Yuuri back to reality, back to the wetness of his hair and the embarrassing, snotty mess he’s making all over this towel. He rubs at his forehead, looks over at the TV screen where Christophe and his husband are watching an episode of _Human by Choice_.

“ _I didn’t think it was possible_ ,” Agent Dina Seymour murmurs on the screen. Her preternaturally beautiful partner shrugs, kneeling down to examine some sort of evidence. Yuuri turns back, looks at the man sitting across from him, and swallows.

 _Who are you? How do you know me? When did we first meet, because surely I should remember meeting someone like you_ —

“What?”

Yuuri has never prided himself on his conversational skills before, but this must be a new low.

The man seems to take it in stride. “Maybe we should start from the beginning again, Agent Katsuki,” he suggests. “I’m Viktor Nikiforov, owner of this mansion.”

“You seem to know me already, Mr Nikiforov,” Yuuri replies, already ashamed that he doesn’t seem to know as much about the man as he seems to know about Yuuri. It’s extremely uneven, though a part of him is screaming about the eerie similarities between the man in front of him and the one on the TV.

Viktor waves a hand. Even that single gesture is graceful, devil-may-care. “I don’t think I know you at the level I wish to know you,” he replies, intense blue gaze searching Yuuri’s as if he could peer into his very core. Yuuri feels bared and exposed, even though he knows he’s covered in the bathrobe and the towel currently catching the remnants of the bathwater from his hair.

“Do we ever really know a person at the level we wish to know them?” he wonders, his voice faltering to his own ears. A faint spot of colour appears in Viktor’s pale cheeks, and his lips curl into an amused smile at that. Yuuri has pleased him with his answer, it seems.

There’s a bark, and Makkachin appears at Viktor’s side, tail wagging as he sets his head in Viktor’s lap. Viktor’s laugh easily pours out of him as he rubs at his dog’s head. “Do you like dogs, Agent Katsuki?” he asks.

Yuuri smiles. “I have one back in Virginia,” he replies, and vaguely wonders what Vicchan is doing now, and if Celestino has been walking him regularly.

“What’s his name?” asks Viktor.

Yuuri feels his ears heating up. “Vicchan,” he replies. “I got him after… after my stint in Detroit.”

“Detroit, yes.” Viktor puts a finger to his lips, tapping thoughtfully at his chin. “I think I remember hearing about you there, Agent Katsuki.”

“You were in Detroit?” asks Yuuri, raising an eyebrow.

“How else could I have waited for you for five years?” wonders Viktor. “I thought I would never find you. Seven billion people on this planet, but only you touched me in a way I had never thought I could be touched before. For that moment when we met, Yuuri, I felt like I’d found a kindred spirit.”

Yuuri is warm, _too_ warm. He clears his throat, suddenly feeling too small in his skin.

“I wish I remembered our first meeting as vividly as you do,” he says quietly. “And I wish we didn’t have to meet under the current circumstances, too.”

“I know.” Viktor nods, as Makkachin ambles away from him to lie down next to the fire. “Life is so fleeting, isn’t it? I knew Emil, to some degree. Knowing someone and then losing them is… a bit of an acquired taste.”

“You can say that again,” Yuuri mutters. Viktor laughs, darkly beautiful, and something in Yuuri’s gut stirs at the sound. “Did you… were you the one who called me?”

Viktor nods, beaming like a child with a new toy on his birthday. “I found out you’d visited earlier today,” he replies. “I wanted to meet you in person.”

“Do you have any information for me?” wonders Yuuri, a little weakly.

“Well,” says Viktor, shrugging. “Like I said, I knew Emil, to some degree. He was… he was a very cheerful person. And he had a good soul, one he showcased in all of his works. His new film is not nearly as provocative as the protesters might have you think. And —” here he sighs a little, folding his hands in his lap and looking at Yuuri through his lashes, “I shall miss him as an _exemplary_ human being.”

Yuuri’s throat is dry. “I — I’m glad you wanted to tell me about that,” he says. “But I was wondering if you knew anything about the night he died.”

Viktor looks down. “I’m afraid not,” he admits.

Yuuri has the distinct feeling he’s saying a lot less than he’s letting on. With a sigh, he takes his mobile out of his pocket to check the time. It’s well past midnight now, and exhaustion nestles deep into his bones with each additional minute. He sits in front of the fire, basking in Viktor’s presence. The man is a contradiction in every angle, in the brightness of his eyes and the flickering shadows across his face, in the warmth of his voice and the coldness of his words. Yuuri is fairly certain he has never seen anything or anyone quite so fascinating before, not since —

“ _What an exquisite creature_ ,” breathes Agent Marlow, reverently reaching out and touching what looks to be a young cephalopod-like alien. “ _My heart’s racing, my palms are sweating. Dina, I think I’m in love._ ”

“Are you?” Yuuri asks, nodding towards the screen. Viktor puts a finger to his lips, nods and winks. Yuuri’s eyes widen in response, his stomach lurching like it’d been caught by inertia when his personal universe shifted just a little closer to Viktor.

Time has been far too kind to this man, this strange and divine being who had inspired Yuuri to even consider becoming an FBI agent in the first place. The longer he sits there, the harder it becomes to remember how to breathe. Viktor tilts his head, smiles so soft and sweet and _just like his onscreen counterpart_ , and Yuuri can’t take it a moment longer.

“I should leave,” he says, though a tiny part of him desperately wants to stay. “Does someone have spare clothes that I could borrow?”

“It’s late, Agent Katsuki,” Christophe points out. “You’re welcome to stay in one of our beds.”

“I’m sure the lodge will still be open,” Yuuri mutters, shifting in his seat, but the look on Christophe’s face clearly brooks no argument. “How much?”

“On me,” Viktor says immediately. Christophe raises an eyebrow, and for a moment nothing but knowing glances are exchanged between the two, a conversation clearly showing how well they know each other. Finally Christophe sighs, nods, and Viktor’s beam widens.

Christophe peels away from his husband’s armchair with a sigh, Makkachin perking up as he crosses over to the hearth. “I’ll take you to your room, then,” he says, extending a hand. Yuuri rises, nodding at Viktor. At his feet, Makkachin whines and thumps his tail.

“Good night, Mr Nikiforov,” he says.

“Viktor,” corrects Viktor, smiling.

“Then call me Yuuri,” Yuuri suggests, and Viktor’s eyes crinkle a little. Yuuri could swear he feels their gaze following him out of the room and upstairs to his bedroom for the night.

“Your clothes are drying in the bathroom above the heater,” Christophe says as he hands Yuuri his key to the room. “Let us know if you need anything — Masumi and I are on the third floor, but Viktor is also on this floor, in the room down the hall.”

And then he’s gone, his footsteps receding down the staircase, and Yuuri can’t help but notice how deafening the silence seems to be in the wake of the storm.

* * *

“You’re welcome to stay in one of our beds?” demands Viktor as Christophe makes his way back downstairs. “Is this what you do when I’m away? Aren’t you a married man?”

“He is,” Masumi calls from the armchair facing the TV. “He’s just also an incorrigible flirt.”

“It gets us customers,” Christophe replies.

“Looking the other way also gets us customers,” Masumi points out.

Viktor hums. “Of course he had to be FBI,” he says after a moment.

“Of course?” echoes Christophe, raising an eyebrow. “You said you knew nothing about the boy you met in Detroit.”

“I know a lot more now,” chirps Viktor, positively beaming as he leans back in his chair. On screen, Seymour and Marlow chase down some sort of alien creature. Viktor turns back to the fire, but Christophe is fairly certain he’s watching out of the corner of his eye.

After a moment, Viktor speaks up again. “You let Katsuki see the register when he came earlier,” he remarks.

“I mean, we couldn’t _not_ show him. Not cooperating with the police looks suspicious in a town like this,” Christophe says.

“A warrant, Chris,” Viktor says. “You could have asked them to get a warrant.”

“ _You’d_ have looked Katsuki dead in the eye and told him to get a warrant?”

Viktor groans. “Point,” he concedes. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. It’s not like we have anything to hide.”

“ _Isn’t it the finest feeling_?” Agent Marlow adds from the screen, his eyes boring into the camera. “ _You’ve never quite lived like this before_.”

* * *

_Under the stars with my darling,_  
_We’ll dance the night away_  
_With fireflies sparkling in her eyes_  
_And moonlight ‘pon her face…_

There’s a quiet tap at the window which rouses Sara from her staring up at the ugly popcorn ceiling in her room. Turning over to pause the song currently playing on her laptop, she sits up in bed to see Mila leaning in at the window, waving at her.

“Mila,” she breathes, tiptoeing across the room and sliding up the window to let her girlfriend in. Mila quietly clambers through, exhaling as soon as she’s in the room and Sara has closed the window again. Sara eyes the door, before turning to Mila.

“Most people use the front door,” she whispers.

Mila laughs, stripping off her leather jacket and tossing it onto the chair with most of Sara’s other clothes. Her sweater underneath is frumpy, with sleeves too long for her arms; Sara wants to tuck her face into the cowl at her neck and never leave.

Instead, she settles back on the bed, letting Mila slot into the spaces beside her. The younger woman appears ethereal in the dim lamplight of Sara’s room, in the twinkle of the Christmas lights strung along the ceiling. Outside the night is eerily quiet, considering the storm not an hour ago. The patches of clouds outside the window barely obscure the silvery moon.

“Why do you have the door barred like that?” asks Mila after a moment. Sara looks over at the stick currently wedged between her door and the adjoining wall, and laughs breathlessly.

“I’ve got something to show you,” she says, and Mila sits back up to let Sara cross to the closet door, swinging it open and rummaging inside until she comes up with the paper bag containing the shirt she’d found earlier.

Outside the window, an owl hoots and takes flight.

Mila’s breath hitches as Sara hands her the shirt; her hands tremble a little as she turns the shirt over and over, as if convinced the stains will disappear if she moves it enough.

“What is that?” Mila manages after a moment, her voice hoarse.

“Blood, I think,” says Sara.

Mila drops the shirt onto the bed. Sara sweeps it into the bag, folding it back up and shoving it under her bed.

“Is it…?” wonders Mila.

“I don’t know,” admits Sara. “I think so. He came back late that night in just his tank top.”

“How did you find it?” asks Mila.

“Laundry.” Sara exhales.

Mila shakes her head. “You don’t know if that’s… if that’s really blood. Or if it’s really Emil’s. And besides, there’s no way they’ll charge Mickey, right? They linked Emil to the case in Detroit five years ago — Mickey wasn’t in Detroit five years ago, was he?”

Sara laughs, her voice hollow. “We were actually in Toronto at the time,” she says. “We were staying with family members who run an icewine vineyard.”

Mila blinks. “So you’re saying that Mickey could have —”

“No! But it doesn’t look good! It looks even worse with — with that!” Sara points downwards, to the shirt currently tucked under the bed. “He told me he dropped Emil off and went for a walk to clear his head. I didn’t think he’d actually mean ‘I dropped Emil’s body into the lake and cleared my head of his murder’ or something.”

Mila extends her arms, and Sara burrows into them, tucking her lips against Mila’s collarbone. Mila strokes her hair, fingers soft and understanding. “Are you going to go to the police?” she asks.

Sara shakes her head, laughing quietly to herself. It’s wild, seeing how such a small thing like a shirt can evoke so much uncertainty in her gut. But then she had never had a real reason to fear her brother’s overprotective side before.

“With evidence this damning,” she wonders, “do I have a choice?”

* * *

He is standing on the banks of the Detroit River, the wind whipping at his hair, the faint outlines of buildings barely visible through the fog rolling over the water. The sound of ships in the distance, gulls crying in the air. Water lapping at his feet.

“ _I have a theory, Yuuri_ ,” Phichit’s voice echoes around him, soft and lonesome. “ _If our revised victimology is correct, then maybe we’ll stand a chance of luring the unsub out of hiding_.”

The smell of peaches, faint in the air. Bitter taste of peach pits faint against his teeth. Glasses of ice cold water in an overheated little apartment, crumbling crust cooling on the table. He is sitting at a table now, on the banks of the Detroit River. A paper plate full of peach cobbler in front of him.

“ _I’ll be heading to the waterfront. If I’m not back by ten, call the DPD_.” The sound of a door swinging closed. The peaches grow cold.

Too cold. Too pale — like death. Floating on the current, eyes closed — or maybe that’s what he looked like on the slab when the morgue attendant pulled back the sheet. Yuuri would’ve almost preferred being sat in a room and shown pictures, but at least this seems more final.

The sweet taste of peach curls into bitter regret. Could’ve stopped him from leaving the flat. Should’ve told him it was too dangerous. Would’ve… but then, would it? The fork is cold in his hands, the peach cobbler now growing green as mold seeps from its cracks.

He is sitting on the banks of the Detroit River when the police find him. “ _We found your partner_ ,” they say. Three days too late. The cobbler was eaten, cold and lonely. The biggest heartbreak of all, and there’s no cure for it anymore.

Yuuri wakes to the feeling of tears running down his cheeks. For a moment he doesn’t remember where he is, until he sees the moonlight filtering in onto a rich oil painting of a poodle, until he feels the intricate embroidery of the brocade coverlet under his fingers. He’s in his room at the Paradise. The bed is soft, maybe a little too soft. He swings out of bed, suddenly restless, and goes out onto the balcony to pace.

The balcony is a common space for several other rooms, though the French doors leading into all of them are closed. The wind is whistling through the trees, but at least there is no rain, and the patchwork clouds ghosting over the moon do not do much to obscure its light from Earth.

Viktor is on the balcony, too. Yuuri suddenly feels slightly overdressed in the bathrobe he’d slung over his body, as Viktor is standing in just a set of silk pyjama bottoms, his torso pale and perfect in the moonlight. A part of Yuuri wants to reach out and ascertain that he is real, wants to feel the thrum of blood warming Viktor’s skin beneath his fingertips. Wants to taste, like biting into a ripe peach on a warm summer day. But instead, he keeps his hands and his mouth to himself, and pulls his own bathrobe tighter around his frame.

“Aren’t you cold?” he wonders as he draws closer. Viktor shakes his head, his face visibly lighting up.

“Not when you’re here,” he says.

Yuuri can’t help the smile on his face. “That’s forward of you, Mr Nikiforov.”

“Viktor,” reminds Viktor, and it seems like each inch lost in the distance between them correlates to a mile farther off the ground that Yuuri’s heart can soar. It’s not exactly an equal ratio.

“Viktor,” he agrees, folding his hands on the railing of the balcony and looking out. The night settles on their shoulders like a warm mantle. He listens to the chirping of the crickets, the hooting of the owls, the rustle of the leaves.

He tries to ground himself in the physical surroundings around him that are not Viktor, and closes his eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep?” wonders Viktor after a moment. Yuuri opens his eyes, exhaling. He nods.

“Dreams,” he says.

“Bad ones, I imagine, given your line of work,” Viktor remarks. Yuuri nods; moments later he hears the shuffle of Viktor’s body moving a little too close to him. He can smell Viktor’s cologne, feel the heat of his body just breaths from Yuuri’s own.

“Sometimes the images just won’t leave you,” he says, looking out at the faint hints of twinkling lights through the trees, like little stars on a distant shore. “No matter how many lives you save, it’s still the ones you don’t that stick with you.”

“You’re not responsible for the death of Emil Nekola,” Viktor points out.

Yuuri grits his teeth, his hands gripping at the railing of the balcony. Viktor is a stranger; they’ve known each other for only a couple of hours. Even if Viktor has been in the background of Yuuri’s life ever since he first saw him on screen as Agent Marlow, there’s still no reason for him to trust Viktor as much as he wants to.

“I know,” he says. “But since the linking of this case with Belle Isle, I still can’t help but wonder if my failure then led to his death now.”

“Then maybe someone out there believes in second chances,” replies Viktor. His hand is millimeters from Yuuri’s own; it’d be too easy to just press them together, to feel the warmth of Viktor’s skin beneath his fingertips. But he draws his hand back instead, his heart heavy in his chest, and looks up at Viktor again.

Viktor’s expression is a calm mask, and Yuuri has never claimed to be an expert at reading body cues, but there’s an air of disappointment in the slouch of Viktor’s spine as he looks down at Yuuri. He feels small, inadequate; with a quick nod he turns back towards his room.

“I should go,” he says.

Maybe he’s imagining the disappointment in Viktor’s hum of assent. He looks back, and Viktor’s face is cast half in shadow, beautiful and unreadable. Yuuri feels a shiver run down his spine, and he quickly darts back to the doors leading into his room.

Once inside, he closes the door, careful to draw the curtains over it. Suddenly shrouded in darkness, it takes him a moment of fumbling to find his way to the bed. But once he does, he flops face down on it, inhaling deeply against his pillow. The linens smell a little musty from age, but he closes his eyes anyway.

A haunting tune begins to filter through the night air, somewhere caught between a whistle and a pipe. Yuuri closes his eyes, and before he knows it he is hurtling face-first into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Yuuri wakes again to the sound of discordant piano music.

For a moment he just lies there in the bed, trying to remember if he really is awake or if he’s still dreaming. Sometime during the night he’d shifted onto his side, cheek slightly indented from the creases in his pillowcase. The music continues on, cacophonous even through the floor, and Yuuri groans as he sits up in bed and rubs at his eyes.

The music still hasn’t stopped by the time he gets downstairs, padding across the marble tile in a set of hotel slippers with his bathrobe tight around him. In fact, it seems to get louder with each step towards the sitting room. Quietly, Yuuri pushes open the sitting room door, and peers in.

There’s no one at the piano.

Yuuri pinches himself, just to make sure he’s not dreaming. But there’s still no one at the piano, and the music continues to play — the keys continue to move, without any discernible human behind them. Yuuri steps closer, wondering if it’s some sort of mechanism, but when he gets to the bench there’s a sudden loud chord — Yuuri flinches — and then silence.

“Georgi?” Viktor’s voice comes from the hallway. “That’s not how that usually ends.”

Silence. Yuuri slowly turns towards the door, feeling the chill of a sudden breeze ruffling at his robe. Viktor, whose face has appeared at the door, smiles at him from over a cup of tea and a newspaper.

“Breakfast?” he asks.

* * *

Agent Katsuki leaves after breakfast, donning his suit and his windbreaker and calling Sheriff Nishigori from the front desk phone to send a boat over for him. Christophe doesn’t know how he even got to the island in the first place. He also suspects that he doesn’t want to know.

When he goes out to collect the plates and cups from breakfast, he finds Viktor still at the table, resting his chin on his hands as he gazes wistfully off into the distance.

“Do you believe in fate, Chris?” Viktor wonders. Christophe frowns, setting down the tray and taking a seat opposite Viktor.

“You know what I think,” he replies.

“Do I?” Viktor looks thoughtful. “I know you and Masumi met in college, separated, and then reunited in a hotel bar in Montreal. Not many people can claim second chances from the universe, you know.”

“You think Agent Katsuki reappearing in your life again is some sort of cosmic second chance?” Christophe raises an eyebrow as he busies himself with stacking the tray. “I knew you were a bit of a helpless romantic, Vitya, but you sure know how to pick them.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” wonders Viktor, his eyes narrowed. Christophe laughs.

“You know why he’s here,” he points out. “You should be careful.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” replies Viktor, spreading his arms. “Just let me have some fun, Chris. I haven’t felt this alive in ages.”

He smiles, then, sweet and heart-mouthed, and Christophe remembers exactly what had gotten him to uproot himself and Masumi and come out here in the first place. That sparkle in Viktor’s blue eyes, that almost childlike wonder with which he sighs and looks off into the woods in the direction of Quad Axels — Viktor Nikiforov is a pillar of ice slowly melting from the inside by the size of his big, warm heart, and Christophe can’t help but feel an uneasy curling in his gut as he clambers to his feet and takes the tray.

“What are you going to do about it?” he asks.

Viktor sighs. “I want to find him again,” he says, and rests his chin on his hands like some teenage girl daydreaming about her first crush. Christophe chuckles, shakes his head, and returns to the house with the tray heavy in his arms.

* * *

A couple days later, another sleek black car pulls up in front of Quad Axels Police Department and another dark-haired man in a dark suit comes out with a briefcase in his arms and a pair of sunglasses firmly planted on his scowling face.

He strides into the station, flashing his badge brusquely at Guang-Hong. “I’m here to see Agent Katsuki,” he bites off, and Guang-Hong examines his badge for a long moment before handing it back.

“He’s right through there, Agent Lee,” he says, nodding towards the door closest to the reception area. Agent Lee goes, knocks at the door, and is let in moments later.

“Who was that?” asks Leo as he comes to stand by Guang-Hong’s desk. Guang-Hong shrugs, worrying at his pen with his teeth.

“Probably another FBI agent,” he says. “Maybe Agent Katsuki needs some help.”

Meanwhile, said Agent Katsuki is setting up a blackboard in the conference room with photographs of each of the victims of the Belle Isle drownings when he hears the knock on the door. Yuuko goes to get it, and moments later he hears a familiar groan.

“Back to this again,” says Agent Seung-gil Lee. Yuuri turns around just as he lowers his sunglasses and sets his briefcase on the table. “I’d _heard_ you’d connected the murder here with Belle Isle.”

“The same markings on the victim’s lips,” replies Yuuri, before turning back to the board. “But that’s not why I need you here.” He gestures to Yuuko. “This is Sheriff Yuuko Nishigori. Yuuko, the best technical analyst at the FBI: Special Agent Seung-gil Lee.”

“Oh, it was no trouble, dropping my own caseload at the last minute to help you with yours,” intones Seung-gil, rolling his eyes and completely ignoring Yuuko’s outstretched hand. “I had to book last-minute plane tickets _and_ find a dogsitter on such short notice. I’ve booked a hotel in Portland, too, so hopefully my stay here will involve more civilisation than… _this_.”

Yuuko’s expression, which had been tentatively polite during the introductions, hardens rapidly. “ _Excuse me_?” she asks. Yuuri sighs.

“He’s just like that,” he says. “Don’t let him intimidate you.”

“I’m not intimidated,” retorts Yuuko, rolling her eyes.

Yuuri nods. “Right, if you say so,” he replies, and then smiles at Seung-gil. “I have the laptop for you,” he says, gesturing to the clunky-looking black laptop sitting in the centre of the table.

Seung-gil physically recoils. “What kind of fossil _is_ that?” he demands.

“One with a hard drive I need to recover,” replies Yuuri.

“I don’t know,” says Seung-gil, taking the laptop and examining it. “Seems like anything I do might put this rustbucket out of commission a lot sooner.”

“Do what you can, then,” replies Yuuri.

“Is it just the laptop that’s a fossil, or is it the entire town?” mutters Seung-gil as he opens up the laptop and moves to turn it on.

“ _Hey_ ,” snaps Yuuko. “You can at least _try_ to be a little decent to the people you’re going to be working with for the next few days, okay?”

“She has a point, you know” Yuuri mumbles. Seung-gil barks a short huff of laughter as he fiddles with the keyboard of the laptop.

“Can you at least not show those pictures?” he snaps, jerking his head towards the board where Phichit’s photos are laid alongside the other victims’. “Take your conspiracy board out of my workspace.”

Yuuko rubs at the bridge of her nose. “Maybe we should move you to a new workspace, then, since we actually need this room,” she retorts.

“Best idea I’ve heard all week,” replies Seung-gil, before swiping up the laptop and nodding at the door. “Lead the way, then.”

As they make their way down the hall to find Seung-gil an empty office to work in, Yuuri falls into step next to his disgruntled colleague. “I’d have understood if you asked someone else to come in your stead,” he murmurs.

Seung-gil snorts, rolls his eyes. “I don’t trust anyone else with the Belle Isle case,” he replies, his glare steely. “Phichit gave his life for this. I’m not going to let the sonuvabitch who killed him get away a second time.”

Yuuri nods. “If… If you insist, then,” he says, wanting to reach out and pat the other man. It’s clear, in his white-knuckled grip on the laptop, just how much Phichit’s death had affected him. But he knows better than to do something like that, so he just says, “let me or Yuuko know if you need anything,” and speeds up to catch up to where Yuuko is unlocking a door.

Once Seung-gil is settled into a dusty unused office, he immediately plugs in and reopens the laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard as he types. “This might take a couple of days,” he warns. “I’ve got recovery software in my briefcase, so we’ll see how long it takes for that to run on this thing.” He looks up, folds his hands together. “What do you want me to bring back?”

“As much as you can, especially anything to do with _Inferno_ or his death.”

“Right.” Seung-gil claps. “Then I’ll need absolute silence.”

“We’ll leave you to it,” replies Yuuko, and quickly flits out of the door with Yuuri in tow. Once out in the hall, she turns to him and raises an eyebrow, looking pointedly towards the door.

“Where did you _find_ this guy?” she demands.

Yuuri chuckles sheepishly. “Hackathon at MIT,” he explains, as they make their way back up the corridor towards their conference room. “And yeah, he’s always like that.”

* * *

Emil Nekola’s cabin is still covered in police tape, even though the majority of his possessions have been bagged as evidence. Yuri Plisetsky leans his bicycle against a nearby tree and creeps over to the nearest window, training the lens of his camera through the half-open blinds.

 _Click_. _Click_. Nothing out of the ordinary in those rooms. With a sigh, he caps the lens on his camera and moves around the back of the cabin.

The sliding door around the back is slightly ajar, so Yuri dons his gloves and slides it open farther, shimmying under the caution tape and into the desolate living room. Outside the birdsong filters through the air, sweet yet melancholic. Yuri looks back, out at the glittering expanse of the lake and the distant rush of Boitano Falls, and suppresses a shudder.

He wanders quietly through the rooms, mindful of his footsteps as he takes pictures of each empty space. A couple books here, a lamp there — but it’s not like the abandoned crime houses he’d seen in the movies. There’s no strange writing on the wall, no eerie photographs. This house could have belonged to anyone.

And maybe that’s the point. All the evidence has been moved, after all.

“What could have possibly led to your drowning?” he mutters, opening a desk drawer in the bedroom. A Maison Leroy business card lies amid the mess of pens and sticky note pads, with a phone number scrawled on the back. He pockets it, looking around at the rumpled bedsheets and the empty bottles of beer and cigarette butts on the nightstand ashtray. The entire room is musty with a faint scent of smoke; after a moment Yuri grimaces and heads back out.

Once back in the backyard, Yuri slides the door closed gently behind him. For a moment, he checks through the photos he has on his camera, and then snaps a couple more of the lake. He’ll have to run down to the drugstore to get these photos printed, alongside the ones he took a couple days prior. But first —

There’s a sudden rustling noise, and Yuri nearly jumps out of his skin. With his camera lowered but aimed at the bushes, Yuri tiptoes closer to the source of the noise, breath bated in anticipation.

“Yura,” a voice comes suddenly from behind him, and Yuri spins around and almost punches the dark-haired man standing just a couple feet from him in his surprise.

“Beka,” he snaps, “don’t you know better than to sneak up on me?”

Otabek Altin laughs. “I thought you’d have heard me,” he remarks.

“What made you follow me out here?” demands Yuri, capping his lens and crossing his arms. Otabek puts both of his hands up in surrender, chuckling a little. Yuri’s scowl deepens.

“I knew you were up to something when I saw you talking to that FBI agent the other day,” Otabek explains. “I told you that wasn’t a good idea.”

“You don’t get to control what I do,” retorts Yuri, scowling. Otabek nods.

“Yeah, I’m — look. I’m just concerned for you. I’m sorry if that comes off as anything else.”

“I’m twenty-one. I can take care of myself, thanks,” spits Yuri, already turning to go, but Otabek darts forward, grabbing his wrist. Yuri turns again, and is immediately struck by Otabek’s concerned expression.

“I know, but I just don’t want to see you hurt or arrested or something.” He sighs, rubbing at his temple with his free hand, his expression a mixture of emotions Yuri isn’t sure he wants to name. “I’m sorry, Yura. Let me help you, maybe? That way you might be less likely to get into trouble.”

Yuri snorts, but Otabek folds his arms behind his back and looks up through his lashes, and suddenly Yuri feels like he’s sixteen again, fumbling in the grass behind the bleachers on the football practice field. He’d been shorter than Otabek then; he’s half a head taller now. And yet something about this expression still makes his heart skip a beat.

“Yeah,” he sighs, after a moment. “You can help.”

Otabek smiles. “All right, then,” he says, loping over to Yuri’s side. “Did you get anything good today?”

And as the two of them head to where Yuri’s bike is leaning against the tree, neither of them see the third figure out on the lake watching them leave.

* * *

Viktor had been on the way to Town Hall Green with Makkachin in tow when he spies Yuuri at the window table of the Cherry Flip. The FBI agent is stirring a cup of coffee, with a half eaten slice of peach cobbler on the table in front of him. He seems to be staring out across the street, just past Viktor and Makkachin, with a faraway look in his eyes. Viktor ties Makkachin to the nearby bench, makes sure the bowl of water that the café sets out for passing dogs is within reach, and heads for the door.

The bell above the door of the café tinkles merrily as Viktor steps inside. He smiles at the server behind the counter before heading over to the window table, clearing his throat to get Yuuri’s attention.

Yuuri looks up, a little nose of surprise escaping him as he straightens up and smiles at Viktor, turning his phone over and pushing it away. “Viktor,” he remarks. “You’re here.”

Viktor smiles, raising an eyebrow as he gestures to the chair across from Yuuri. The man nods, almost imperceptibly. Viktor slings his coat over the back of the chair and takes a seat, folding his hands on the table. His throat is choked with too many words, too many ways to start a conversation. His heart is pounding too hard in his ears.

Yuuri sips at his coffee. “How have you been?” he asks, his tone carefully neutral. Viktor bites his lip, looking out the window at where Makkachin sits by patiently by the bench, panting in the midday sun.

“I was walking Makkachin when I saw you,” he replies, cringing a little at how that sounds. “He misses you, you know.”

Yuuri smiles. “I’ve only met him for a day,” he points out.

“Makkachin gets very easily attached to handsome FBI agents,” replies Viktor, the tips of his ears already burning. Yuuri snorts, his cheeks flushing pink, and Viktor quickly distracts himself by looking over at the screen playing some sort of news broadcast about a gang member’s death in Portland.

“Your dog has some interesting likes,” Yuuri says, and Viktor turns back to see the other man’s brown eyes dancing behind his glasses. He remembers those same eyes clouded over with champagne, remembers that same body pressed against his in the lukewarm hotel pool, the taste of those same lips now parted over the rim of his coffee cup.

He swallows, and shifts in his seat. “What can I say? He’s interested in novelties.”

“Novelties.” Yuuri hums, tapping at his lips and picking at his cobbler. “You say we met five years ago, though, so am I really a novelty in this case?”

Viktor freezes, feeling his cheeks warm up. “Well,” he manages after a moment, “what’s the point of that first meeting if you don’t remember it?”

Yuuri stabs a peach with his fork, arching an eyebrow as he does. Viktor watches the piece of fruit disappear behind those sinful pink lips, and curses internally at how uncomfortable his trousers have become at the sight. He clenches his hands against the edge of the chair, his next smile slightly strained.

“Unless… you remember something?”

“I had a friend who remembered,” replies Yuuri neutrally, eating another slice of peach. “Would you like something to drink? I’m sorry, it’s rude of me to —”

“No,” says Viktor quickly, smiling. “You like that? Coffee and peach cobbler?”

Yuuri nods, but offers no further information. Viktor tucks that away, drumming his fingers against his chair as he does so.

“How are you liking the town?” he asks after a moment.

“Quiet,” replies Yuuri, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards a little. “Not much to do.”

“School’s starting soon,” Viktor points out. “Sometimes there’s autumn concerts. A festival in October for Halloween. Prank nights.”

“Even the smallest of towns have dark secrets,” Yuuri continues, his gaze now fixated on his cobbler. “It’s interesting that a killer from Detroit would strike again over here. A lot of food for thought.”

“Tragic,” agrees Viktor. He’s floundering for conversation topics, he knows. Yuuri seems single-mindedly focused on his work. It’s a good look on him, though it’s also remarkably frustrating when it comes to establishing a connection. “I’ve always found the people here to be pretty friendly, though. Close-knit. Protect their own.”

“An intricate web,” replies Yuuri, nodding. He looks up at Viktor again, his eyes unreadable. “You might not always know what your neighbour could be hiding.”

“I have no neighbours, save Chris and Masumi,” replies Viktor.

“But you have guests,” Yuuri points out. “As well as — what exactly _is_ Georgi?” His face flushes a little. “I — well. Probably should’ve asked that sooner, but he’d slipped my mind until now.”

“A ghost,” replies Viktor. “He used to be the bar pianist, back when the bar had more clients.”

“What happened to him?” wonders Yuuri.

“Rejection.” Viktor’s eyes are sad. “He fell in love with a woman named Anya who was staying long term with us at the time, but she left him for someone else. So he went out on a boat, and the boat came back empty.”

“And now he plays the piano whenever he likes,” murmurs Yuuri. Viktor laughs a little at that.

“Yeah. He’s not the only ghost in town, you know. There’s a rich history of the paranormal around here.”

“I know,” agrees Yuuri. “Yuri Plisetsky told me at this table the other day.”

“He did?” Viktor beams. “I don’t see him as often as I used to. He’d come over to the mansion a lot as a kid. Always on the lookout for some sort of lake monster. Is he still doing that?”

“He thought that lake monster might have murdered Emil,” replies Yuuri.

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “Do you believe him?”

“Would _you_?” wonders Yuuri. Viktor bites his lip, and Yuuri snorts in laughter. “Really? Have _you_ met the lake monster, too?”

“No, of course not,” Viktor chuckles sheepishly, pushing his hair out of his face just to occupy his hands with something. “But I have to appreciate his dedication. He’s been at it since he was a kid, you know. You’d think he’d have found more evidence since then.”

Yuuri hums in agreement, stirring idly at his coffee, before taking another sip.

* * *

A couple blocks away in a tiny little drugstore, Yuri pushes his hair out of his eyes as the photo printer hums into life. Next to him, Otabek drums his fingers against the counter and looks appraisingly at the packs of cigarettes lining the walls behind the cash register.

“You want some?” Yuri asks, nodding towards the packs.

“I quit ages ago,” says Otabek.

“Ah.” Yuri smiles, turning to trail a finger along the zipper of Otabek’s leather jacket. “Probably a good idea. Too bad it was too late for my grandpa.”

“How is he?” asks Otabek.

“Chemo’s a bitch, but I’ve got him a nurse now.” Yuri purses his lips for a moment, and then takes out his phone, idly fiddling with it for a moment as if desperate for a distraction. “He asked after you the other day. Wanted to know what you were up to.”

“Work’s been busy,” replies Otabek, chuckling. “Winding up the summer reading programme, gearing up for back to school. You know, if you’re looking for something —”

“I’m fine.” Yuri cuts him off, shaking his head. “I’ve got Grandpa’s shop.”

“Right.” Otabek nods. “And… uh, Potya’s comic?”

“Working on volume two.” Yuri’s eyes sparkle even under the ugly fluorescent lighting. “Puma Tiger Scorpion faces off against hypocritical animal rights’ activists who run a shelter that kills ‘unwanted’ pets. They’re no match for his cat-a-mantium claws.” He makes a couple slashes through the air as if to illuminate his point, and Otabek laughs.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy all summer,” he says after a moment. “I should’ve hung out with you more, now that you’re back.”

Yuri’s cheeks flush, and he folds his hands behind his back and rocks awkwardly on his heels. “That’s fine,” he says, almost automatically. Otabek takes in his old leopard-print hoodie, his torn-up jeans and beat-up Doc Martens, and sighs.

“It’s so strange having you taller than me,” he remarks.

“It’s cool, is what you mean.” Yuri grins toothily. “I can lean my chin on you now, sorta. How’s it feel?”

“And clearly you still have the humour of a fifteen-year-old.” Otabek chuckles. Yuri’s cheeks flush darker, and he turns his attention back towards the machine.

They collect the printed photos, pay the cashier, and hop on Otabek’s motorbike back to Yuri’s grandfather’s house. It is a tiny little one-story thing falling apart at the seams, a wire fence barely holding in a yard full of weeds and a driveway sporting a banged-up turquoise station wagon. Yuri’s bike is leaning against its rack in the garage as they park Otabek’s alongside it, tossing their helmets onto the rack before stepping into the house itself.

The soft noise of the television going through its afternoon reruns greets their ears. Yuri steps into the living room to see his grandfather Nikolai sitting in his armchair. Across from him on the couch, the hired nurse is perusing a two-year-old magazine.

“ _There’s gotta be a pattern here somewhere_ ,” Agent Faris Marlow is saying on the screen as he steps back from a whiteboard bearing several photos. Yuri pauses for a moment to watch from the back of his grandfather’s armchair, hearing Otabek rummage through the kitchen behind him in search of a glass of water.

“We moved the glasses to the cabinet by the microwave,” he calls over his shoulder, and then leans down to peck the top of his grandfather’s head. “Hello, ded.”

“Yurochka,” mumbles Nikolai with a sigh. “Is that Beka I hear?”

“Yeah, he’s helping me with something,” says Yuri.

Otabek steps into the room. “Hi, Mr Plisetsky,” he offers.

“What happened to Kolya?” wonders Nikolai.

“Kolya,” agrees Otabek. “It’s been a while.”

“It has.” Nikolai stabs at the remote with a finger, slowly lowering the volume of the TV. On screen, Agent Dina Seymour writes something on the whiteboard. “How was Harvard?”

“Good,” says Otabek. “Good to be back, too.”

Nikolai hums in agreement. “You two kids have fun, then,” he says, waving a hand as his attention is diverted back to Agent Marlow’s heart-shaped grin.

Yuri and Otabek head down the hall past the kitchen and to the door marked still with caution tape. There’s a meow as they open the door, and Yuri scoops up his longhaired Siamese cat Potya as Otabek enters. A giant poster of Potya stylised as a cartoon superhero is hanging above Yuri’s bed, now, alongside photographs of Yuri walking across a stage at the California Institute of the Arts for his diploma.

“I noticed a couple more of those posters in the hall,” Otabek remarks, gesturing to the Potya poster. “It’s really cute.”

“Yeah.” Yuri pulls out a chair with one hand just as his cat escapes and lands onto it, licking her paw. “Potya loves the fame, don’t you?”

Potya meows in response. Yuri lays out the photographs he’d printed alongside the flash drive and the camera bag, and sighs.

“Where do we begin?” he wonders, holding up one of the photographs of Agent Katsuki.

Otabek takes it from him, holding it up. “Maybe with a timeline,” he suggests, just as his mobile rings. He checks the number and cancels the call, but within seconds it rings again.

“Do you need to take that?” asks Yuri, not even looking back at him as he starts to hang up pictures and news clippings.

Otabek sighs. “I’ll be back,” he says.

Yuri shrugs and nods, and Otabek quickly slips out the door.

* * *

“Have you given thought to your plans once this case is closed?” asks Viktor. Across the table, Yuuri raises an eyebrow.

“You think I’ll close this?” he asks, a note of surprise in his voice. Viktor raises his eyebrows, too.

“Do people usually think you won’t close a case?” he asks.

“No, I — I’m just a profiler. I do what I can.” Yuuri rubs at his nape. “I’m supposed to be here as a guiding hand from the back, you know. It’s only a federal case because the body washed up in another state and seems linked to Belle Isle.”

“You’re sure it’s not a copycat?” asks Viktor.

“Ther are certain shared traits between them that we didn’t release to the public,” replies Yuuri.

“And you’re certain he died at Rittberger,” says Viktor.

Yuuri nods. He finishes up his coffee, then, and continues on with his cobbler. Viktor toys with one of the sugar packets, debating ripping it open to eat some of its contents.

He flags down a server instead and orders a coffee, smiling at Yuuri as the server strides away. “Still, you didn’t answer my question,” he says. “Where are you going once this is over?”

“Back to Virginia,” replies Yuuri almost immediately. “My dog will miss me otherwise.”

“Do you think you’d ever want to come back? Not for a case, though. Maybe for the Fourth of July. You get such a good view of the fireworks from the Paradise. Or you could come for Christmas, and stay until New Year’s.”

“We’ll see,” Yuuri’s smile is tight, and Viktor feels his stomach tie into knots at the sight. The server returns with a coffee, and Viktor sips it simply for the sake of having something to do. The drink burns at his tongue on the way down, and he winces as he sets the cup back on its saucer.

“I’m sorry,” he manages after a moment. “I don’t want to overstep any boundaries.”

“I’ll let you know if you have,” replies Yuuri, his brown eyes kind, and Viktor has to clutch at his cup to prevent himself from lurching forward and reclaiming those lips again. This is all madness, he knows — all just the first spark of emotion from the reunion with an old flame. It will smoulder down again, if he’s careful. If he can guard himself and maintain a degree of professionalism whenever he's with Yuuri.

Viktor Nikiforov has never been good at guarding himself. But just before he can say anything, something from the TV seems to catch Yuuri’s eye:

“ _This just in: a new video uploaded to YouTube has sparked controversy across various different social networking sites, including Twitter, Tumblr, and Facebook. The video, uploaded by an account called ‘KatagiH’, shows several protesters of the late director Emil Nekola’s second film,_ Inferno _, harassing Mr Nekola as he makes his way onto set_ —”

Yuuri leaps to his feet. “I need to go,” he says abruptly.

Viktor nods. “Damage control, I suppose?” he asks. Yuuri laughs, digging out a couple bills.

“Here, for my stuff,” he says, but Viktor pushes the money back.

“I’ll cover it,” he says.

“Oh,” says Yuuri, flushing as he replaces the bills in his wallet. “Thanks.”

“Could we, uh, meet again?” It sounds awkward even to Viktor’s ears. “Dinner, maybe? Or even lunch, if dinner seems like too much —”

Yuuri’s cheeks bloom darker. “Um. That would be nice,” he says as he swings on his blazer, carefully avoiding Viktor’s gaze. “You have my number — text me.” And with one more heart-melting smile he brushes past Viktor on his way out the door.

Viktor watches him go, his heart flipping wildly in his stomach.

* * *

Yuri looks up as Otabek re-enters the room, noticing immediately the tightness of his jaw and the pallor in his cheeks. “What’s gotten into you?” he asks, as Otabek pockets his phone.

“Nothing,” says Otabek, though he can’t seem to meet Yuri’s eyes. Yuri bites his lip, but decides not to say anything about it. Instead, he gestures to the board he’s set up, news clippings and photographs clustered into some sort of chronological order.

“This is what I’ve got,” he says. “Emil Nekola comes to Quad Axels in late June, and for a couple of weeks there were protesters just outside the set. He gets police protection, and the protesters lose interest. Then in early August they finish filming and he disappears.”

“Mila said he’d been pretty smashed the night he disappeared,” Otabek agrees. “And Michele Crispino drove him home.”

“Michele probably didn’t _actually_ drive him home,” Yuri says. “There’s nothing weird at his cabin, remember?”

“You took those photos after the police removed anything of interest,” Otabek points out.

“Yeah, well, a body doesn’t just float halfway around the lake and out to the river without being discovered by all the recreational fishing boats,” Yuri says. “Besides, I’ll bet you based on these pictures —” and he points to the photo he’d taken of Agent Katsuki and Sheriff Nishigori pointing to something in the distance — “they think he was killed near Rittberger.”

Otabek frowns. “But why would Michele drive him out to Rittberger just to kill him?”

Yuri shrugs, opening his laptop just in time to see a news article pop up about a viral video regarding Emil Nekola. He clicks the video, and is immediately accosted with the image of several picketers at the side of the road yelling at Emil as he makes his way across the street.

There’s a waft of aftershave as Otabek leans over his shoulder to look at the video. “What is this?” he asks.

“Probably another motive,” says Yuri, tapping at his chin. On the screen, someone breaks free from the protesters to block Emil’s path, grabbing him from the front of his shirt. Moments later a police officer shows up to break the two of them apart, and Yuri freezes the video as soon as the camera gets a good look at the protester’s face.

“Huh,” says Otabek. “I knew he’d been opposed to the film being shot here, but I didn’t know he’d do that.”

“I’m not surprised,” grumbles Yuri as he grabs a screenshot of the page and prints it, folding up the edges of the paper as soon as it comes out of the printer and tacking it onto the board. “Leave it to JJ Leroy to be an asshole to people minding their own goddamn business, always.”

* * *

“ _JJ Leroy_?” breathes Yuuko, rubbing at her temples. “Are you _serious_?”

“That’s what it looks like,” Leo points out.

“Nathalie Leroy did tell me she knew some of the protesters,” agrees Yuuri. “She could have been referring to her own son.”

Seung-gil looks up from his laptop, glaring at all of them. “I’d appreciate it if you guys didn’t breathe down my neck while I’m trying to isolate the location of this KatagiH, thanks,” he snaps.

They quickly pull their heads back. Yuuri turns back to the board, carefully averting his eyes from the photographs of Phichit on the board as the last of the Belle Isle drownings. Yuuko comes to stand next to him, her hands on her hips as she looks at the pictures as well.

“Do you think he did it?” she asks.

“Was he in Detroit at the time of the other murders?” he wonders.

Yuuko shrugs. “Do you want us to bring him in?” she asks.

“It’s worth a shot,” replies Yuuri, just as Seung-gil looks up from the laptop.

“Good news and bad news,” he says. “Good news, the signal’s coming from the Boitano Falls Lodge. Whoever KatagiH is, they uploaded locally and can probably be found.”

“And the bad news?” asks Yuuri.

“It’s the Boitano Falls Lodge. A lot of people check in and out of there. We won’t know precisely who unless we question everyone in the hotel. I suggest _against_ questioning everyone in the hotel, by the way.”

Yuuko snorts. “We know, they _do_ happen to teach us not to waste the department’s time and money at rural hick police school,” she intones drily.

Yuuri sighs. “Let’s just see if we can get JJ down here for questioning,” he suggests, and starts heading for the door.

* * *

When a man in a dark suit comes up to her desk and flashes an FBI badge, Isabella’s first instinct is a curling sense of dread in her stomach.

“I have some questions for Jean-Jacques Leroy; do you know where he is?” asks Agent Yuuri Katsuki, replacing his badge back in his blazer pocket.

Isabella raises an eyebrow. “You look familiar,” she says, her fingers tapping against the counter. They’d all seen the video by now. It’s not surprising the police are looking for JJ after seeing it. But it should mean nothing — or at least, that what she tells herself.

“I stay at this hotel,” he replies.

She hums, clenches her hands. His concern is just cursory. Tied to the questions raised by the video. “I’ll check to see if he’s here,” she says, and dials for the Leroy residence in the hotel.

Sure enough, JJ picks up. “ _Hello_?” he asks.

“JJ, it’s me,” says Isabella. “There’s an FBI agent who wants to see you.”

There’s a long moment of silence on his end, and then he says, “ _I’m not talking to him without a lawyer_.”

Isabella raises an eyebrow. “He doesn’t look like he wants to arrest you,” she remarks.

“ _No_ ,” says JJ. “ _He already hates me. He threatened to arrest me for obstruction just because I interrupted him once. I’m calling my lawyer_.”

Isabella looks up from the phone. “He’s not talking to you without his lawyer.”

“I see,” says Katsuki, his eyes narrowed slightly. “Could you give me the number of his lawyer, then? I’ll talk with them and arrange a time for him to come down to the station as soon as possible.”

Isabella nods. “I’m going to give him your lawyer’s number,” she says into the receiver. There’s a moment of incensed breathing, and then JJ says:

 _“That’s fine. You do that, Bella_.” A sigh. “ _Are you sure he doesn’t want to arrest me? That video looked pretty bad_.”

Isabella looks up at Katsuki, who is currently turned around to watch the others milling around the hotel. A young woman at the bar winks at him and he blanches, looking away. Isabella stifles a giggle as she whispers, “I don’t think he can charge you with anything, JJ. Just go down to the station and answer some questions.”

“ _I know_.” There’s a rustling on the other end. “ _You know I didn’t do it_.”

“Of course.” Isabella smiles. “Contact your lawyer, darling.”

“Yeah,” agrees JJ. There’s a click, and then static. Isabella sets down the phone, and pulls up the details of JJ’s lawyer, writing down a name and a number and handing it over.

“Lilia Baranovskaya,” remarks Katsuki, looking at the slip of paper.

“She’s the best in the Pacific Northwest,” replies Isabella.

“I’ve heard of her,” agrees Katsuki. “Okay, I’ll give her a call. Thanks for letting me know.”

“I’m sorry you went to all this trouble of coming over here,” replies Isabella through her smile. Katsuki flashes a comparable one in response as he takes a step back, almost colliding with one of the maids as she crosses the lobby towards the hallway with the service elevators. He apologises to her, his cheeks now bright pink and his demeanour more flustered than when he first stepped up to the concierge desk. Isabella hides a smile, though she makes it more obvious once Katsuki leaves.

One of the other front desk managers looks over. “What was that?” he asks.

“Someone had some questions,” says Isabella vaguely, before smiling at the next person to approach her. “Hi! How can I help you?”

She doesn’t notice the maid lingering by the entrance to the service elevator, watching the door where Katsuki had left.

* * *

_Darling when you leave me,_  
_I find myself holding on_  
_Holding on_  
_To the pieces of us…_

The Cantilever is quiet tonight, the music over the speakers streaming loud over the hushed whispers at the bar and tables.

Sara is filling up a couple pint glasses when Mila arrives for her shift. The younger woman disappears briefly into the back before reappearing with a tray in her hands and an apron around her waist. She steps behind the bar, and Sara raises an eyebrow at her when she holds out the tray for the glasses.

“You could do that from the other side of the bar,” she says.

“I just wanted to ask how you’re feeling,” replies Mila. “I mean, there was that leak, so I guess the police are looking in another direction. You don’t have to —”

“No,” interrupts Sara. “I have to. It’s damning evidence, isn’t it? But I have to.”

Mila looks around the room for Mickey. “Is he here?” she whispers.

“He took the night off,” replies Sara, shrugging. She puts the pints onto Mila’s tray, and sends her off in the direction of a side booth. Mila goes, shooting Sara a concerned look over her shoulder anyway.

She comes back after a moment, as Sara starts work on a tequila sunrise for someone at the bar. “I don’t know, Sar,” she says, which causes Sara to look up at her, almost incredulous.

“Such little faith,” she remarks. “It’s going to work.”

“And that means you’d send your brother to _jail_ ,” hisses Mila, and Sara’s expression twists for just a second. She finishes the cocktail, sliding it down the bar to the customer before taking Mila by the wrist. With a smile and a hasty apology at the bar patrons, she quickly drags Mila back through the kitchen and into the back storage room, closing the door behind them.

There’s only a moment of darkness before the bare bulb flickers on, illuminating Sara’s hardened expression. “Don’t talk about this out there, Mila,” she growls.

Mila opens her mouth to protest, but she’s cut off by a kiss, angry and sharp. Sara tastes of cigarette smoke; the hardness with which she shoves Mila against the rack of take-out containers screams of desperation. “Sara,” Mila gasps, when they pull back for air. “That’s not —”

“Are you backing out, Mila?” asks Sara. A shiver crawls up Mila’s spine at the storm in her lover’s eyes, and she frantically shakes her head.

“That’s not the point, Sar. I just — I just think there’s a better way —”

“I’m sorry.” Sara steps back, shaking her head. “I told Mickey about Emil.”

Mila blinks. “What?”

“After Emil walked out on him,” says Sara, “he was strangely nice to me for a couple of days. I hadn’t known, so I thought it was weird. And I told Mickey. It’s how I found out they’d slept together in the first place. But then I think that made Mickey think that Emil was moving on to me, because… Mila?”

Mila blinks again, and then realises that she’d taken a step away from Sara, her hands shaky as they reach for the door of the storage room. Her stomach is churning, as if she’d suddenly fallen off the edge of a precipice that she hadn’t known had been there in the first place.

“You… you caused all of this?” she breathes.

Sara looks down at her feet. “I didn’t think he’d _kill_ Emil,” she says.

Mila shakes her head as her hand finds the doorknob. “I’m sorry Sara. I need space to think.” She pulls the door open, and steps out. “I know you couldn’t have foreseen that, but…” she shrugs, feeling all the words that should’ve come after fizz out and die in her throat. How can she find the words? Sara had done the deed already. She’d already told Mickey.

“I know.” Sara nods. “I just. I feel responsible.”

Mila nods. “I get that.” And she closes the door.

* * *

“Phichit, it’s been an interesting day, to say the least,” says Yuuri into his phone as he sits in the conference room, staring up at the board for the umpteenth time that day. It is night now; one of the officers has left a box of chips on the counter alongside half a pot of coffee. Yuuri considers drinking the coffee, but then remembers the last time he tried that, and cringes.

He clears his throat, and continues to talk into his phone. “First off, Seung-gil’s now in town. He misses you, too, you know. He’s gotten worse with that smart mouth of his, too. Nothing in this town is good enough for him, I suspect. I don’t blame him, honestly.”

He checks the clock hanging on the wall. “Secondly, It’s nearing eight, Phichit, which is when I’m supposed to meet with Jean-Jacques Leroy and his lawyer. Lilia Baranovskaya’s reputation precedes her. I’m worried already. I’ve been checking and double checking all of the questions I’d drafted in advance, but I just know when I’m actually interrogating the kid I’ll slip up and ask something that’ll get him defensive. I mean, hopefully that won’t happen, but I’m worried about it happening all the same.”

His phone pings with a message from Viktor. _Are you busy this Friday_? it asks, and Yuuri feels something strange and warm bubbling in his stomach at that.

“Phichit, I also seem to have reunited with the man from the party you told me about. The one you made me cobbler for because you thought I was ditched? Turns out I’m far from ditched now — I think he wants to spend more time with me. I wish you could help me out with this; dating has never been my strong suit. I’m not even sure if it’ll be a date, or if he’s just trying to make a friend or something.”

He runs a hand through his hair and pauses the recording to respond to Viktor’s text. _Not now_ , he replies. _But I’ll let you know if that changes._

The answer is almost instantaneous. _Good_! It’s accompanied by more hearts than what should be strictly necessary on a friendly text, and for some reason Yuuri’s own heart flutters all the faster at each of them.

“Phichit, he still hasn’t stopped being beautiful even with five years between. It’s really not fair of him. I don’t understand why the universe had to take away my memories of dancing with him in favour of drunken stupor. I can only hope this second chance goes smoothly.”

He switches off the voice memo app just as someone knocks at the door. Moments later, Lilia Baranovskaya strides into the room, her dark hair pulled into a severe bun and her contouring as rigid as it had been in her last press photo. Close behind is Jean-Jacques Leroy, looking sheepish in his polo and khaki shorts with a cardigan around his shoulders.

Ms Baranovskaya snaps a finger. “Right, let’s be quick about this,” she says. Yuuri gestures to the seats opposite him, and the lawyer and her client take a seat. She puts her briefcase on the table and folds her hands expectantly; he fidgets with his fingers and the sleeve of his cardigan.

Yuuri taps his pen against his notebook, trying to quash the worms in his stomach before flipping open his notebook.

“I saw the video today, Mr Leroy,” he says. “Were you also responsible for the threatening letters?”

JJ looks over at Ms Baranovskaya. One quirk of her eyebrow has him vehemently shaking his head. “That wasn’t me,” he says. “I was caught in my emotions that day when I stopped Mr Nekola; I’m usually not like this to anyone.”

“Not even on the night of Mr Nekola’s death?” wonders Yuuri.

JJ blanches. He looks at Ms Baranovskaya again. “I…” he begins, and then trails off, his expression getting paler by the minute. “I wasn’t — I didn’t do it.”

“Jean-Jacques,” snaps Ms Baranovskaya in warning. JJ shuts his mouth abruptly. Yuuri sighs.

“I know,” he says. JJ gapes at him, his body visibly deflating in relief. He slumps back in his chair, fixes Yuuri with a puzzled look. Ms Baranovskaya, too, seems to be befuddled, though she’s doing a better job of hiding it.

Yuuri looks at his list. “I know from the registers at the Paradise that you and an ‘Isabella Yang’ checked in on the night of Emil Nekola’s death. If I were to ask about your whereabouts that night between the hours of ten and midnight… would I get ‘with her’ as a response?”

JJ squirms. His cheeks flush, his fingers fiddle idly on the table. But he nods.

“Don’t tell my parents I’m, ah, seeing someone,” he mumbles. “Out of wedlock.”

“And by ‘seeing someone’ you’re implying ‘in a sexual relationship’,” states Yuuri.

JJ nods vehemently, his face bright red.

Yuuri nods as well, the tips of his ears heating as he jots down the observations alongside his questions. He can hear JJ fidgeting across the table, and gestures to the box of chips.

“Want chips? Coffee?” he asks.

Ms Baranovskaya shakes her head. JJ’s expression, which had lit up at the possibility of getting food, dulls once more as he subsides into his seat. Yuuri hums.

“Okay. Could you tell me if you saw or heard anything suspicious the night of Emil Nekola’s death?”

JJ looks at Ms Baranovskaya. She nods; he folds his hands on the table and clears his throat.

“Bella and I were cuddling around, uh, midnight when we heard a loud crash. We were in one of the rooms on the upper floor so we opened the window to check what was going on.” He pauses, tapping at the table now. “It was really dark outside, so I couldn’t see anything, but Bella swore she could see people struggling down by the water and wanted me to go check. But by the time I got outside I only saw one person lying on the ground and the sound of a boat motor disappearing. I ran back into the house to get help, but by the time we all came out the other person was gone, too.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “Gone,” he echoes.

“Yeah. He looked pretty beat up so I didn’t know he was Emil Nekola until he was reported missing.” JJ nods. “I wouldn’t ever kill someone, I swear. That’s not my style.”

“No, your style is something closer to interrupting people and maybe getting in their face when they’re trying to go to work,” bites out Yuuri before he can stop himself, and then he claps a hand to his mouth. “Sorry.”

“No, I get it, it’s something I’m working on,” JJ smiles sheepishly. “I’m sorry to have caused all this trouble, sir.”

Yuuri nods. “Right. And you didn’t manage to get a good glimpse of the attacker?”

“No,” says JJ. “Only heard a boat motor.”

Yuuri nods again. “You said you didn’t realise it was Emil Nekola until he was reported missing. What made the connection for you?”

“When they reported him missing they had a description of his clothes,” replies JJ. “I recognised that. And, I mean, he looked sort of familiar but I couldn’t really put my finger on it at the time. I’m sorry if this isn’t helpful, sir.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “No, you’ve been very helpful, Mr Leroy,” he says.

“And you will not be charging my client with anything?” interjects Ms Baranovskaya, an imperious eyebrow arched accusingly at him.

Yuuri taps his notebook. “Not at this present moment,” he replies. “Thank you, Mr Leroy, for your assistance. You’re free to go.”

* * *

The door to the conference room swings open, and Sara turns her head to see the man she’s looking for exit it with Jean-Jacques Leroy and his lawyer in tow. He seems relieved about something, even smiling at some comment that the lawyer makes as he bids them goodbye.

Jean-Jacques passes by the receptionist’s desk on the way out and swipes a lollipop, smirking at he tears the wrapper and sticks the candy in his mouth with a twirl. Behind the desk, Guang-Hong rolls his eyes and returns to his paperwork.

Sara straightens up as Agent Katsuki bids Jean-Jacques and his lawyer goodnight, plastering on a smile that she hopes is friendly even as her hands clutch the paper bag in her lap with white-knuckled intensity.

Agent Katsuki looks over at Guang-Hong, who nods to her, and then he turns and offers a hand.

“Ms Crispino,” he says. Sara looks up, loosening one hand on the bag to take his. “Do you have something to show me?”

Sara nods, and places the bag in Agent Katsuki’s hands. “I found this in my brother’s laundry,” she replies, feeling her cheeks flush. “You should probably, uh, look at it somewhere else.”

“Well, uh, step into my conference room,” he suggests, opening the door to the room for her. Sara steps inside and is immediately confronted by the whiteboard compiling crime scene photos from both the Belle Isle and Emil Nekola’s cases. The victims all seem to leer down at her even in death, and she feels a shiver run up her spine.

“Is this the investigation?” she asks, but Agent Katsuki seems to have gone extremely, unsettlingly still. With a frown, she turns towards the door to find him standing there with the shirt half out of the bag, the bloodstains harsh and brown under the fluroescent light.

“I need to have this tested,” he says after a moment.

“It’s probably not his own blood,” replies Sara. “He came home late that night in his tank top.”

“This is a very serious accusation,” Agent Katsuki points out. “Are you sure it’s one you want to make? What if you’re wrong? Can’t go wrong with entertaining the possibility that you might be wrong.”

Sara looks at the shirt, doubt churning in her stomach as she remembers how Mila had backed away from her like she had been a monster. As she remembers how she’d found Mila smoking outside while on break, her hands shaking as she tells Sara she still _needs time to think_. Her own comments to Mickey, _twisted_ — but surely not too twisted? Agent Katsuki shoves the shirt back into the bag, his expression contemplative, and _oh_ , Sara wants to say something. Wants to take the bag back and march right out the door and pretend none of this ever happened.

But then she turns back to the pictures on the board, and sees among them a young girl with curly hair and bright eyes, and she wonders how she’d feel if that had been Mila instead. So she grits her teeth, clenches her fists, and shakes her head.

“No,” she says. “I don’t think I am in this case.”

* * *

Yuuko and Leo bring Michele into the station in handcuffs. Yuuri is standing by Sara when he is escorted past her into the nearest interrogation room, and when they do pass Michele’s expression twists in something caught up between sadness and anger.

“I did it for _you_ ,” he snaps, the words spitting into his sister’s face, and Sara recoils but otherwise does nothing.

“Come on Mickey, let’s go,” suggests Leo as Yuuko opens the door to the interrogation room and brings him in. They close the door, and Yuuko gestures for Yuuri to follow him to the observation room next door, where they watch, through the two-way mirror, Leo uncuff Michele and leave.

“What are you going to do?” asks Yuuko. Yuuri blinks.

“Sorry, what?”

“You were with JJ Leroy, and now this. There’s two suspects here who barely know each other as far as we know.” Yuuko puts her hand on her hips, her ponytail swishing as she observes Michele pace the interrogation room, scrubbing at his face with his hands before pounding on one of the walls.

Yuuri swallows. “JJ has an alibi that I still need to confirm,” he says, already taking out his mobile.

“So it’s Mickey, then?” wonders Yuuko.

Yuuri shakes his head, already typing out his message. “No, not for murder. Michele Crispino attacked Emil Nekola, but he didn’t kill him.”

Yuuko’s groan is quiet. “Then who did?”

Yuuri shrugs. “That’s what I need to find out,” he replies as he sends off the message:

 _Viktor, can we have lunch tomorrow_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _within the film the mirror held_   
>  _reveals the secrets this town has felt_   
>  _but hid from all the world without_   
>  _where romance blossoms, so does doubt._
> 
> next chapter will be up on a sunday probably after i take my GRE (unless i have no sense of self preservation. but hopefully i do) so see you guys later in the month haha

**Author's Note:**

> send me your theories! i can be found on [tumblr](http://omgkatsudonplease.tumblr.com/) if ao3 is not your speed.


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